


fight 'til the day that i die

by incurableromancer



Category: The Old Guard (Comics), The Old Guard (Movie 2020)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Blood and Injury, Blood and Violence, Bottom Joe | Yusuf Al-Kaysani, Cuddling & Snuggling, Enemies to Lovers, Explicit Sexual Content, Face-Fucking, Falling In Love, Frottage, Getting Together, Hurt/Comfort, Kink Negotiation, M/M, Masturbation, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Romance, Slow Burn, Swordfighting, Top Nicky | Nicolò di Genova, Wall Sex, anti-hero joe, detailed trigger warnings in the notes, horny sword fighting, joe has ptsd, service top Nicky, thief nicky, thigh fucking
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-23
Updated: 2020-12-16
Packaged: 2021-03-10 02:01:39
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 4
Words: 28,139
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27675733
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/incurableromancer/pseuds/incurableromancer
Summary: It’s this vulnerability, the look of concentration on Nicky’s face as he rips alcohol wipes open with his teeth and uses them to clean up Joe’s swollen hands. Gentle, in a way he rarely flaunts. The humanity of it all. That’s what started all this. Seeing someone in pain, and for better or for worse, trying to do something, anything, to help.Or: The hero and the thief. Some comic tropes, some sword fighting, and a whole lot of falling in love.
Relationships: Joe | Yusuf Al-Kaysani/Nicky | Nicolò di Genova
Comments: 102
Kudos: 548





	1. chapter one

**Author's Note:**

> TRIGGER WARNINGS: Physical violence, blood, bruises, needles as used for stitches, knives as used for fighting, and swords. Bare knuckle fighting. Prescription drugs as pain management. Alcohol consumption. Smoking. Strong language. Talk about the police and the so-called justice system. Joe and Nicky fight physically and verbally. Once, notably, with swords. There is described and implied/referenced gun violence. Joe has PTSD, and symptoms of it. 
> 
> Explicit violence is not an exaggeration. 
> 
> I hope you enjoy reading this as much as I enjoyed writing it.

The thief wasn’t his nemesis. Not at first.

He wasn’t even on Joe’s radar, is the funny thing. Far from the kind of criminal that he focuses on bringing down.

The tabloids and the papers sewed most of the nemesis story; arch-enemies, rivals, foes. And most of it came from a single desperate somebody in a news office somewhere who was overeager for a scoop. Somebody who picked up on the fact that out of all of the figures cast as heroes and villains in this wretched, cursed city, Joe and the thief are the only ones who carry around massive _swords._

Joe uses a sword because he doesn’t believe in guns. Avoids them if at all possible, because even when everything is messed up and backwards and things like _good_ and _bad_ feel lost in an endless swirling of grey, guns are still evil. Plus, sword fighting is a somewhat antiquated form of combat, so his adversaries are never prepared to take him on, never on equal footing, once he gets close enough. Their lack of experience, in addition to his bullet proof vest and his deflection skills, haven’t failed him yet.

The thief, as far as he can tell, uses one purely because it’s sexy. That’s what he told the press, in any case, in one of his signature taunting video messages.

A flair for the dramatics, him.

It’s not even the same kind of sword, either, though the papers would have you believe that the two of them are a matched set, two halves of a whole. Joe’s is much more practical, thanks. It weighs far less than the longsword monstrosity the thief parades around. Much more dynamic, and suitable for Joe’s sort of fighting. Quick, in and out.

And, if Joe got the impression for one second that the thief ever actually _used_ the absurd thing in fights with people, he might have taken more of an interest in stopping him. In living up to the rivalry the papers like to ascribe to them. But that’s not the thief’s game, and Joe knows that. Elegantly stealing diamonds and draining vaults doesn’t involve a lot of confrontation, not when you work with one of the most notorious hackers on the continent, and have yet to be caught in the act. Now, that Booker- he looks like he could do some damage in a fight. Him and his big, bulky muscles that could probably put some real swing behind a sword. But of course, Joe knows that’s not really his game, either. The only trouble he’s ever been credited with is orchestrated from behind a computer.

So the thief pulls off his heists, always and only from corporations and wealth hoarders who can spare it, the money going to places that Joe suspects (hopes) are actually in need of it. And Joe takes down the kind of men who do actual damage, if left unchecked.

They go about their very different lives, which don’t intersect. Not that the papers care, so long as peddling their own narrative sells.

It’s become a private joke, of sorts. The papers ask Joe (masked, identity concealed) about the thief, _his_ thief, they’ll say, and Joe skillfully diverts to systemic issues that the police and the politicians aren’t solving. Tries to make it clear that he isn’t with them, that everyone in the city can make a difference in their own ways, even though the papers don’t much like to focus on that stuff.

And they ask the thief about Joe, when they can. In response to which the thief goes on about Joe’s biceps, or his ass in his suit, his curls that stick out of his hat sometimes. How sexy his voice is when he does his little conferences, and how enticing a passionate, poetic, well-versed hero is; a real man of the people. Extends an invitation to compare sword skills, which.

It is flattering, in a way. That somebody is paying attention, _really_ paying attention, beyond the perceived esteem of it all.

They never meet, though. Never cross paths.

Until.

*

“Who did this to you?”

The thief hisses as Joe tries to get close enough to do anything at all, to help him up or hold pressure over one of the wounds. Flinches back not like he’s scared, because of course he’s not, the pompous dumbass, but like he thinks the contact is going to _hurt._ Like he knows he’s not winning any fights, tonight.

It doesn’t bode well, this.

Then he glares up at Joe with his big, furious eyes, flashing spectres in the dark, every bit as captivating as shown on the news footage and as the papers describe. Then he _spits_ at Joe, wet and disgusting, so suddenly that Joe takes a step back.

The thief growls, raw, “what does that matter to you, Mr. Hero? Good for business if I’m out of commission, no?”

That leaves a bad taste in Joe’s mouth. He’d thought, however naively, that all the compliments meant they had a mutual respect thing going. Evidently, that is not the case.

How it is that the thief has wound up bleeding and mistrustful in an alley in Joe’s corner of the city is another question.

Joe stares down at him for a second, fuming. But then he looks at the blood pooling and spreading on the wet pavement, and he cocks his head, taking a breath and centring himself.

“No, man. You don’t know my business. Here, please.”

Joe holds out his hand.

The thief stares up at him, calculating.

And then there’s a clattering in the back of the alley, a sound Joe thinks might have been caused by a cat, or a raccoon, probably digging for dinner in the dumpster. But it makes the thief jump and clasp Joe’s hand as though it’s his last hope.

“Easy, easy.”

Joe gingerly helps him get his arm slung over Joe’s shoulders, and then they’re off, limping towards Joe’s apartment under too-bright moonlight.

They are, until the thief kicks Joe in the shin and stumbles into the nearest brick wall, puts another crack in a half-boarded window, looking around with wild eyes.

Joe can only stand there, surprised, cursing, “what the fuck?”

The thief spits at him again, looking like a caged animal.

“We just passed Sal’s place! I’m not from this side of the city, sure, but I know that means the hospital is in the other fucking direction! Are you trying to drag me somewhere to have your wicked fucking way with me, you freak? I thought you were a good guy?”

Joe blanches at him, incredulous at the implication, stalking closer until the way the thief flinches back stops him. _Now_ he looks scared, the shine of the blood through the black fabric of his shirt only getting thicker, spreading wider the more time they waste.

So Joe raises his hands, instead, switching tacts and trying to put on a placating face, behind his stupid mask. He can feel the barely there pattering of rain starting to come down, cool against his fingers.

“That’s true, the hospital is the other way,” Joe starts, “but if I take you there the police will be waiting, won’t they?”

The thief stares at him, eyebrows twitching. If he really would prefer the hospital, Joe isn’t going to stop him from going. But he doesn’t go there, himself. Which is the reason he has half of a trauma room arsenal in his medicine cabinet.

“Right, so- my place is this way, and I have what we need to take care of most of your injuries. You’ve seen some of the damage I’ve walked away with on the news, yes? I take care of them at home, which is much closer than the hospital, by the way. There’s nothing more to this than that.”

The thief barks out a half-hysterical laugh, and says, “you’re going to take me to your home? Where you live? _You_ are going to take _me_ home?!”

It sounds pretty stupid, pretty ill-advised to Joe, too. But he’s not going to let anyone bleed out in an alley, much less one so close to his own place. That’s asking for attention and trouble that he doesn’t need. Scrutiny. And he isn’t one to leave anything or anyone to the police, if he has another choice.

And this thief, with his dramatized heists and his fucking longsword, his witty banter with the press, his ties to fucking food banks and resource centres for troubled kids, ties that are only speculated at, vague enough that the money can never be reclaimed- he is far from a danger. Except, maybe, to the bank accounts of people who horde their wealth, so.

(Yeah, maybe Joe pays attention to the thief beyond the glamour, too).

“I barely make above minimum wage, pal. I don’t have much you’ll find worthy of stealing. I don’t see your fucking longsword, either, so I don’t have to worry about that, do I? I don’t see why I can’t take you there, unless you’re saying you’re going to give me a reason not to.”

He tries to approach the thief again, but then, suddenly, just as the skies crack open and the rain starts hammering down, he finds himself shoved up against the wall, moonlight glinting against the knife that is shoved against his throat.

It’s impressive, sure. It would be more intimidating if the thief wasn’t half slumped over him, though, managing to stay standing only because Joe gets his arms around him and helps hold him up.

“The fuck are you in this for?” The thief growls at him, agitated. “I do see the news, I know you’re not one of the pigs. So you’re some kind of actually _good_ guy, right? Picking up their slack? Darling of the city? I know we banter, but what the fuck are you trying to get out of helping me, one of the bad guys?”

Joe finds it strangely charming that the thief considers his own incessant, flamboyant, performative flirting in the media and Joe’s mild tolerance in response _banter._

The thief can only growl some more, clearly losing energy by the minute, as Joe gets a hand around the one he is using to clutch the knife. He’s shaking, maybe getting dizzy from blood loss, and barely resists Joe pushing the knife forward so that it’s pressed to his concealed throat, instead.

Joe murmurs, stone cold, “do not presume to know what I am, or why I do what I do. Good and bad- they are childish terms, no? Infantile? The darling of the city- that is a story that the media likes, nothing more. I am going to help you now because you need it, and because it amuses me when you steal from the mayor’s fucked up circle of friends. It’s funny, the shade of red he turns when he has his little press conferences afterwards, isn’t it?”

The thief stares, exhaling like maybe he’s laughing a little, even as he’s beginning to sway like he’s having trouble staying conscious.

Joe continues, “so just come with me. Let me patch you up, for fuck’s sake, so you can keep making entertainment for us both. Yeah?”

The thief goes with him, after that. He might have argued more, but he’s just about passed out on Joe’s shoulder, forcing Joe to support most of his weight, so.

It’s a late hour, late enough that there aren’t many people around to see them. Those that do blanch at the blood, but one look at Joe’s mask, another at the thief’s, and they’re turning away to get the hell out of dodge.

Joe only hopes that none of them will go to the papers.

When they make it into Joe’s apartment, the thief starts struggling again, though in a way that is more self-conscious, much more subdued than before.

“I’m really fine, you know- I will be. You don’t have to do this.”

Joe’s hand is numb, because the thief’s weight on him had been cutting off his circulation. There’s blood all over his clothes, and he’s aching from the walk over, damp and chilled from the rain. There is, in fact, nothing he’d like more than to be done with the night, to fall into his bed and forget that any of it ever happened.

But he suspects the thief wouldn’t have been left in that alley so long if he had anyone else trustworthy on this side of the city, so.

“Whatever. I do what I want.” He carefully lets him down, wincing at the _thunk_ of him dropping onto the sofa. “Gonna get my supplies. Don’t move.”

When he comes back, of course, the thief has peeled off his own bloody shirt, and is using it to wipe gingerly at his chest. He’s breathing so fast and shaky that Joe wonders how he’s still conscious, and mourns absently that he’s going to have to replace this sofa, if he doesn’t want to look at blood stains everyday.

Shame. It’s served him well for nearly a decade.

“Whoa,” he says, immediately sinking to his knees and taking the shirt from the thief. He grumbles, and fights him a little, but all Joe has to do is push on his shoulder and his entire body just seems to give up, flopping back against the cushions. He has very broad shoulders, even slumped as they are. Probably part of the reason Joe’s back aches so much after lugging him so far, all that muscle.

Maybe he _does_ get some use out of the ridiculous sword, after all.

The thief’s eyes are still open, even as his body has given every indication of having tapped out, frown firm on his face.

Stubborn. Joe can work with that.

As he goes about wiping up the blood himself, careful with the litany of black, blue and purple bruises all over his torso, the thief alternates between glaring and scrunching his eyes closed to hiss in pain.

“Sorry,” Joe tells him, “I can give you some pills after I clean this up. It’s, uh- my source is a doctor. It’s clean.”

“I don’t need your fucking pills,” the thief spits, which. Okay. 

Joe shoves his mask off his own face, frustrated with how it’s obstructing his vision. There are a few scratches winding up the thief’s ribs that he wants to get cleaned and bandaged before he figures out how to dress the bigger wound across his chest, now that it’s mostly stopped bleeding.

He doesn’t notice that the thief is staring at him in confusion until he’s finished with them, digging around in his first aid kit for bigger bandages, and antiseptic.

“What are you staring at?”

The thief abruptly reaches out and cups Joe’s face, and Joe is so shocked he drops the bottle of antiseptic back into the kit with a clatter. He scrambles to pick it back up, to focus, but he’s a little worried about the thief’s head, now. Maybe he’s disoriented. Joe has a couple of people he could call- Andy, namely, who he gets the pills from -but he’d rather not implicate her in anything else if he doesn’t have to.

The thief pinches his cheek before smacking him lightly, affectionately, and Joe is trying to remember if Andy is available tonight.

“I’ve never seen you without the mask,” the thief says, then, and. _Oh._ Right.

Joe smiles, just a little, a childish excitement rearing up in his chest at finally getting to shuck the secret identity for somebody. For his apparent _nemesis,_ no less. It’s all very _comic-book-dramatic_ , and the kid inside Joe who loved to read them, long before he ever got into any of this shit, is rearing to go. What the hell, right? The thief already knows where Joe _lives,_ what could his everyday nickname hurt?

“Well- nice to fucking meet you. My name is Joe.”

The thief frowns at him like he’s a stain on his shoe, and Joe grins wider.

Then, the thief raises his other shaky hand to fumble with his own hood-like mask until it’s pulled down to his neck, exposing his face.

“Nicky,” he replies, gruff.

He looks very _normal,_ for lack of a better word. Young, or, close enough to Joe’s age, at least. Full head of hair, matted and messy right now from the hood and the sweat, but probably nice enough when it’s clean. Brown, maybe, or dirty blonde. Pretty eyes, but everybody already knows that. The papers love to go on about them, the one defining feature that the mask and the suit don’t hide. _Flirtatious_ , as they’re often described, batted eyelashes and winks in the video messages that the thief- that _Nicky_ leaves for the investigators and the police to find.

But now Joe knows that he also has a big nose, gently curved pink lips, little hooped earrings, scruff, an _awful_ moustache, and a prominent mole that Joe thinks suits him very well. Just a normal guy. Tired, certainly. Vulnerable, trusting Joe to help him out with the injuries, not hiding the fact that he’s in pain. Whining and cursing like it’s his job, which. Cute, maybe, a hint of personality that feels like a more genuine form of the guy in the videos. Charming, in a way that Joe can see getting old fast.

Very, very human, in another.

He wonders what Nicky sees, looking back at him.

Joe sprays the antiseptic over the big wound, then, while Nicky is distracted taking in his features, and it makes him rip his hand away from Joe’s face to clutch at the back of the sofa, cursing and spitting insults at Joe all over again.

“Pleasure’s all mine,” Joe tells him, earnestly.

(Doesn’t tell him that he misses the warmth on his cheek).

He manages to convince Nicky to sleep on his couch, eventually, once he’s all patched up and after the struggle of convincing him to let Joe sew the wound closed, because the guy is so exhausted and shaky after the whole ordeal that he can barely stand. Convinces him that Joe will give him some nondescript clothes to wear to sneak back somewhere safe sometime in the morning. And, the fact that he won’t stop being tight-lipped about how he ended up over here, bloodied and bruised and left for dead, that Joe is a little paranoid that whoever did it is still lurking out there- there’s no way Joe was going to let him walk out the door. Not until the urgency and the secrecy were melted away with the night.

Joe knows how it’s a lot easier to hide the shadiness of it all under the sunshine.

But, of course, when he wakes up the next morning, head aching from a too-late, too-uneasy sleep, the thief is already gone. There’s a pair of jeans and a sweatshirt missing from his closet, and to his utter dismay, his coffee maker is gone from the kitchen. It had been nice, that thing. Expensive, because Joe stole it. He doesn’t make a habit of taking things from places he busts, but it could make _expresso,_ and the guy wouldn’t be around to use it anymore, would he?

There’s a scribbled note left where it was, at least, recommending the corner store around the block for a good morning cup. It also says that he’ll find his television gone next if it gets back to Nicky that Joe doesn’t tip Mr. Sharma behind the counter “handsomely.”

 _Not from this side of the city_ , huh?

And two weeks later, when Joe comes home from his day job to find his door busted in, the thief sitting at his kitchen table, first aid kit out, dressing his own wounds, two cups of coffee from Joe’s new favourite corner store sitting on the table in front of him- it’s all just as well.

*

Months later, when Joe finds himself with a knife wound of his own, bruises blossoming over his knuckles, shoulder and ribs, the last thing he’s thinking about is Nicky.

He’s just successfully foiled a voter suppression plot, which is what matters. Even if the only way he could figure out how to do it was to delay the perpetrators by putting himself forth as a punching bag for just long enough, blocking and backing down and taking hits only until he was certain they had missed their window of opportunity, at which point he took out all his anger at the system, at _everything_ , on them with his fists. Harder and longer than he needed to, probably. Which is why he took the liberty of calling the ambulance before he slipped away.

Nicky would practically be drooling, putting on his video voice and calling Joe sexy and righteous, he thinks wryly. Spits a mouthful of blood out onto the sidewalk when he has to stop for a second to breathe, leaning against a lamp post, and hates the way it spatters against the ground.

So, maybe he is thinking about Nicky.

But mostly he’s too busy cursing the area of his lower back that’s twinging like _crazy_ as he’s limping home, wondering if it’s been long enough since the last time he got his ass kicked that he can call in to work the next day without arousing any suspicion.

He thinks he can. Nile owes him a shift cover, he’s pretty sure.

And, shit. She’s willing to look past a lot of shady stuff, with Joe. Blood stained clothes, keeping odd hours, _secrets_ , vaguely, and having unexplained absences. Having a boy around that she hasn’t gotten to meet, though- that’s unforgivable. Even if Joe is insisting that this one isn’t like that, that _Nicky_ isn’t like that, not that kind of boy, not to Joe. Not that he’s even given up the thief’s name to her. It would feel like a betrayal, somehow. To Nicky, and to Nile.

Her fight is in the work they do at the non-profit, entirely above board, freeing the wrongly convicted. She’s going to get far with it, Joe knows. He’ll be working for her some day, if he doesn’t mess it all up for himself with his extracurriculars.

Which makes it all the more complicated, because Nicky’s been showing up more and more often, these days, taking up more of Joe’s time, and Nile is only asking more questions as the weeks go by.

Nicky shows up every two weeks or so, at least, in need of some first aid, or some food, or a place to lay low. Turns out his time when he’s not heisting is a lot bloodier than Joe had given him credit for.

Other times it’s a lot more often, when he’s not busy heisting or getting into petty fights. When he just wants company, Joe suspects. Because, for example, after he insisted while sewing up a wound on Nicky’s shoulder that he didn’t believe for a second that Nicky ever actually _used_ that dumb longsword he flaunts around, of course Nicky had to prove him wrong.

He had showed up to Joe’s second fucking floor apartment with _the thing_ in its holder on his waist at 4:00pm on a Thursday night, ready to spar, because he’s insane. The only way Joe had been able to placate him was to grant a rain cheque for the sword fight, and to take him on hand to hand in an indeterminable number of rounds, brutal and dirty and _satisfying_ instead, after pushing all the living room furniture out of the way and still making Nicky promise to try to be quiet, because _Joe has neighbours._

They still haven’t called a winner. Kept at it for what felt like and might have been hours, until they were both too exhausted to go on (and Joe’s upstairs neighbour began banging furiously on the floor to get them to shut the fuck up), new bruises all over, covered in sweat, knuckles sore and raw.

Nicky is no mouse, that’s for sure. In a fight, he’s a fucking panther.

(So, maybe Joe can’t fucking wait to take him on in a sword fight).

Joe has never had an acquaintance quite like Nicky. And, yes, _acquaintance_ is the warmest term he can convince himself to use.

And following that conclusion, about the insanity- after Nicky proved entirely uncaring about Joe’s general safety and his cover as a means of keeping his living, kicking in his door knob again and again after each time Joe replaced it and he felt like dropping in when Joe wasn’t there to open it, Joe took other precautions. In the form of four separate locks of different strengths, scattered up the length of the door, ensuring that Nicky can’t destroy it enough to get it open without calling the attention of Joe’s neighbours, and by extension, the police. So now he has to either scale the fire escape and jimmy the window in Joe’s living room open like a self respecting thief who actually knows what stealth is, or wait for Joe at the door, like a respectful _person_ (nemesis? frenemy? tentative ally? Acquaintance.)

The more often Nicky shows up, rarely for reasons to do with needing bandages, now, the less sure Joe is of anything.

Once, bizarrely, he’d shown up with a bag of groceries from Sal’s that he used to cook an entire meal. He made no indication he intended to _share_ , not even greeting Joe when he came in the door, who was trying to catch up on his paperwork, until he marched out of the kitchen with a knife in his fist, which he used to threaten Joe into sitting at the table so that Nicky could serve him like it was a fucking five star joint. Like he didn’t know that Joe would be fucking delighted to eat his home cooked Italian if he had just asked _like a normal person_ , to break bread with him and sing his praises. There’d been nice wine, and gentle music from the radio, and Joe hadn’t laughed or smiled so much as he did that night in a very, very long time. Because Nicky might have been aiming for the nines in a way Joe wasn’t familiar with, that made him feel a little out of place, honestly, made him wonder about where the fuck Nicky even came from. But he still ate with his elbows on the table, and ran his fucking mouth while there was still food in it, and it was still them, and it was perfect, in a way.

And then, of course, because it’s _Nicky,_ and he’s insane, he’d silently disappeared after they ate, taking his opportunity while Joe insisted on taking care of the dishes, and then Joe didn’t see him again for almost a month.

Joe has too much going on in his life to worry about lunatics who go hot and cold faster than his shitty fucking shower, so he never asks, so long as too long doesn’t go by without him confirming Nicky is still alive through his features on the news, another heist pulled off. Just, lets Nicky do whatever, and when he’s gone, goes to his usual club and finds men who make more sense, at least for the solitary nights Joe will spend with them in their beds. 

It’s his luck that tonight is one of the times Nicky has decided to be a sane, respectful person, and is sitting down on the floor in Joe’s hallway as he waits, reading some thick novel like every bit the sweet, innocent, college-educated big shot that he most certainly _is not_.

To Joe’s point, he flings the book to the side when he sees Joe, lets it skid down the hallway and _smack_ against the wall as he stands and advances without so much as an eared corner to mark his page.

“The fuck, Joe? What happened to you?”

Joe just shakes his head, making a hand motion they’ve agreed means _work thing, don’t ask._

Nicky keeps cursing anyway as he helps Joe fumble his keys into all the locks, eyes bulging at the shades of dark purple Joe’s swollen knuckles are turning, biting out vague threats at _whoever it is, I’ll kick their teeth in one by one, I swear to god, should have brought my sword with me today, or my fucking sniper, fuck._

(Joe’s whole body flashes cold and tense when Nicky says the word _sniper_ , and like a lot of times with Nicky, he hopes he’s heard wrong).

“I’m fucking fine, Nicky,” he bites out, shouldering past him when he gets the door open, suddenly exhausted, feelings and memories he didn’t fucking need tonight assaulting him, now.

“I just need some ice, and some fucking peace and quiet. Don’t you have somebody else to piss off?”

“Hold the fuck on,” Nicky grabs his shoulders to spin him around, just where Joe caught the blade of a knife at a truly unfortunate angle not an hour earlier, and Joe, by reflex, and fucking- built up fury, or some bullshit Andy tells him he should confide in somebody about, whips his bruised fist back even as he cries out in pain.

It’s a bad punch, by all standards. Because Joe is drained, and the angle was no good. But still, it was a hit, and it catches Nicky in the lip.

Joe thinks he’s apologizing before it’s even landed, because even if he’s tired and exhausted and it was a reflex, even though they do this all the time _on purpose,_ Nicky didn't know he had a wound there, and he feels bad about it _._

And, _it’s_ _Nicky._

Who is laughing at him and the remorse on his face even as he’s clutching his swelling lip, because he’s _insane._

“ _Fuck-_ easy, Mr. Hero.”

They stand there in Joe’s hallway, just staring at each other, for far too long. Joe, feeling like the walls are crashing down around him, and Nicky, slow smile crawling onto his face, giggling.

Joe joins in the laughter all too soon, because crazy is contagious, or something.

“The fuck was that for, man?”

Nicky calls it over his shoulder as he heads for the washroom, where Joe keeps his supplies.

Joe sinks down onto the couch, and calls, “long fucking day, asshole.”

“Long fucking _life,_ ” he mutters to himself, quieter. Fumbles in his jeans for his pack and a light, inhaling deep and needy once he gets the cigarette in his mouth and lit.

When Nicky comes back, first aid kit in one hand and two bags of frozen vegetables in the other, Joe is struck with the thought that Nicky must have felt something like this that first night Joe dragged him home. It would have been different, certainly, because they were just the thief and the hero, then.

Nicky steals the smoke from between his lips and takes a drag, which would not have happened, and he wouldn’t have stubbed it out in the ashtray on the coffee table, wouldn’t have given Joe a look like that, not that first night, but.

It’s this vulnerability, the look of concentration on Nicky’s face as he rips alcohol wipes open with his teeth and uses them to clean up Joe’s swollen hands. Gentle, in a way he rarely flaunts. The humanity of it all. That’s what started all this. Seeing someone in pain, and for better or for worse, trying to do something, anything, to help.

Joe had been planning to give Andy a call to come see about his shoulder. He won’t be able to reach to sew it up himself, is all.

He watches Nicky bite his lip, breathing deep and even to keep himself steady as he carefully flips Joe’s hand, beginning to treat the scrape across his palm.

“Do you know how to sew, Nicky?”

Nicky grins, then, all teeth. His eyes never leave the area of skin he’s working on, and he doesn’t waver at all in his motions. Joe doesn’t let himself think that it’s a sniper’s steadiness.

“Oh, I’m practically a Girl Scout. You should see me in a pink skirt.”

They decide that Joe should lay face down across the sofa. It’s after he admits that he’s passed out a few times before, when Andy has sewn him up.

“Squeamish, are you? That’s cute. And fucking hysterical, considering how you spend your time.”

Joe has to whisper through clenched teeth, because Nicky is pushing a needle through his skin, and it hurts like a motherfucker.

“Needles are a whole ‘nother level of evil, thanks.”

He can hear Nicky snickering over his shoulder, not touching him now, trying to calm himself down before he brings the needle to Joe’s skin again. The sound helps, a little. And then Joe thinks about how Nicky must never laugh like that, not when he’s behind the sniper, and the spike of adrenaline fused anger and _pain_ makes him grit his teeth tighter.

“Can I ask you a work question?”

Nicky doesn’t pause, back to it now, when he replies.

“I’m not going to make you a personalized heist video to get off to unless you say pretty please.”

Joe would have shoved him, if there wasn’t a needle in his shoulder controlled by Nicky’s hands. He decides to let it go, considering.

“Okay. But you mentioned a sniper, earlier.”

Now Nicky pauses, but only for a second before he’s back at it.

“Yes, I did.”

Joe waits for more, but nothing comes.

He asks, fighting to keep the plea out of his tone, “why do you have a sniper, Nicky?”

Nicky stays silent until he pulls the last stitch through Joe’s skin, douses it in antiseptic and presses the bandage over it. Joe feels like he’s going to explode.

He doesn’t say anything else until Joe is sitting up, again. Tries to hand a clean shirt to him, but Joe just catches his wrist and holds it, hating how shifty Nicky’s expression has gone.

“Nicky-”

“Why are you questioning me now?”

Joe blinks at him.

Nicky continues, “this whole time, you could have asked questions this whole time. Why now?”

Joe releases his wrist, and puts his head in his hands.

“I don’t fucking know, Nicky. Maybe because theft and street fights are a different fucking game than sniping.”

He feels Nicky’s hand come down on his non-injured shoulder, and wants to throw it off. Doesn’t.

“I have a past, Joe. The sniper is part of that past.”

Joe shrugs the hand off, then.

“You threatened to use it on whoever did this to me. You said it like it was nothing.”

Nicky stares at him.

“Yeah, I said that. Because you showed up limping and bleeding, and the best I could do was run my fucking mouth and try to make you feel better. I haven’t touched it in years.”

That’s worse, somehow.

“It’s a killing machine, Nicky! It kills people! And you threatened somebody you know nothing about with it in the heat of the moment?! You just threatened somebody’s fucking life like it was nothing! What the hell is that?”

Nicky sniffs. Turns his head away, jaw clenching, eyes furious.

“I don’t understand why you have issues, suddenly. All this time, it’s been ‘ _don’t ask don’t tell’_ with us, and now, you’re losing your fucking mind because you asked to know something. If it’s a problem that i’m not some perfect little hero like you, why did you ask? Better yet, why the fuck did you drag me out of that alley?”

Ringing through Joe's head in angry, bright red, is the phrase _"you're losing your fucking mind."_

Joe is on his feet before he processes that he’s furious, actually, and suddenly, he’s slamming Nicky against the wall, grasping his collar.

“I knew you were a fucking thief, not a murderer!”

Nicky doesn’t push back, and Joe _hates_ him, just for a moment, because all they ever do is push each other, and now there’s a _reason,_ and Nicky isn’t pushing back. He looks hurt, and that’s not fucking right, none of this is fucking right-

and Joe might pass out.

“I am _not_ a murderer.”

Joe lets him down, hands shaking, turning around and twisting his fists into his hair way too hard, hurts. He can’t breathe. He feels like he needs to be angry, needs to yell, but he can’t _breathe._ Hears Nicky approach, but no hand comes down on his shoulder, and he is incredibly fucking glad it doesn’t because he would snap and break it, if it did.

“Joe- I am _not_ , okay? I was working for some vile fucking people, a long time ago, because I thought- they told me they were something they weren’t. That’s not me, though. You have to know that. The heists- that’s it, now, and I can show you a fucking list of where the money goes, places that _need_ it, I fucking swear- I am not a murderer.”

Joe sinks down to the floor, because he doesn’t want to collapse and fall all over the coffee table. He can hear Nicky cursing behind him.

“Fuck- did you get hit in the head earlier, Joe?”

Joe shakes his head, nearly wheezing. Nicky is in front of him, then, looking confused and concerned and terrible, and his lip is swollen from the punch, shitty as it was, gone red and shiny.

Of course, Nicky’s beaten the shit out of Joe himself, sparring and not. But he’s never seen him like _this._

“I didn’t get hit in the fucking head, dumbass.”

Nicky comes closer, slowly, hovering his hand to give Joe the chance to push it away.

Joe knocks it away so quick and hard that it must hurt, a little, jerking his hand out before he thinks about it. Hears Nicky’s wrist crack against the coffee table, which. Nicky doesn’t let it show, if it hurts. Just settles, hands raised as if to show he’s not a threat, a good few feet away on the floor.

“Okay, well- you’re going to pass out. Just- stop, man. Breathe.”

Joe barks out a hysterical laugh, and Nicky frowns at him, in a way that isn’t, but feels absolutely wicked.

“ _Stop it_ , he says-” Joe sobs before he can help it, and _the way Nicky is looking at him-_ he feels like he’s coming apart.

He whispers, trembling like it’s freezing, half to himself, “don’t you think I would fucking stop if I could?”

Nicky makes a helpless sound as Joe presses his face into his knees, digging his nails into the tops of his calves and counting in his head as he rocks back and forth.

“Joe, I-“

 _“Shut-up-shut-up-shut-up!_ Shut the _fuck_ up, you mother-fucking son of a whore, I swear on _your_ fucking life if you don’t _shut up_ -”

“Okay, okay.”

Nicky shuts up.

Joe kind of loses track of things, then.

He feels like he’s been doused in cold water, rocking back and forth, counting in sets of four, and forcing his lungs to comply even as his heartbeat races ahead.

And it works, eventually. His fingers digging into his legs work as a grounding point, and since he’s controlling his air intake, his heartbeat has to come back down, even though it doesn’t want to.

Even after it does, he can’t convince himself to look up at Nicky. His cheeks feel hot and wet, pressed uncomfortably into the rough material of his jeans, and everything smells like blood, sweat, dirt, and wrongness.

It’s not clinical, though. Not like the hospital smells. He can pick up the cigarette smoke, from earlier, and it helps to focus on that.

 _“Are you fucking happy now?”_ He screams, silently, just in his head, _“now that you’ve seen me fucking broken? Now that you know I’m weak?”_

He almost forgets that Nicky is there at all, in a weird way, after the fury melts away. As the after-crying numb settles in, and he’s just blinking down at the dark of his knees. Flexing his fingers against his pant legs, achey with the blood rushing back into them.

That numb, that almost-forgetting- that’s the only way he convinces himself to look up, again.

Nicky is still there, unfortunately.

He’s not looking at Joe. He’s just frowning down at his lap, tightly, picking at a loose thread on his jeans.

Joe says, voice croaky, tone too flat for the joke he’s trying to make, “this is the longest I’ve ever seen you keep your mouth shut.”

Nicky stares at him, something like concern messing his face all up where Joe knows his own must be looking terribly expressionless. After taking a breath, he says, “guns are a no-go, okay? Don’t you fucking bring that sniper shit up around me ever again. And I’m not- I’m not okay with it Nicky, I’m just fucking not. You’re not a murderer, I shouldn’t have said that. But you can’t bring that up around me, got it?”

Nicky is nodding quickly at him. Seems relieved.

He says, “okay, asshole. Just fucking breathe, will you? You’ve got enough enemies, you don’t need to knock yourself out.”

Joe doesn’t know what he’d been expecting him to say, but. He’s grateful, that it was that.

He feels more solid, now, though still sort of numb and overheated. So he flops down on his back on the hardwood floor, wiping his hands down his face. Hisses, a little, because his shoulder _hurts_ , in a persistent way. And everything else aches, hotter and more concentrated in his ribs and his knuckles, but.

It’s everywhere, the ache.

Nicky soon flops down beside him.

Eventually, he says, quietly, “you’re not crazy.”

Joe is staring at the ceiling, and he can feel Nicky’s eyes on him. He almost wants to laugh, because _he knows that,_ even if it doesn’t always feel true. Feels Nicky nudge his hand, gently. He doesn’t do anything else, when Joe doesn’t nudge back, and Joe is glad, in a way that feels distant and half-untrue.

“You’re not. And- there are doctors you can talk to, if that happens a lot, you know-”

Joe’s laughing then, suddenly, coldly, and Nicky trails off.

“I know what a fucking psychologist is. I’ve seen one. I know how to deal with this. You’ll notice that I _didn’t_ actually pass out, this time.”

Nicky keeps just looking at him, until Joe looks back. Watches Nicky puzzle over it, the unspoken piece of the puzzle, Joe’s own past.

Instead of picking at it, he asks, “do you want me to leave?”

Joe keeps looking back, and he knows that if he says yes, Nicky won’t come back again.

He sighs, and then looks at the ceiling.

“My day job involves building cases to defend people who either didn’t do the things they have been accused of, who get caught up in things they shouldn’t have, or had no other choice but to do, and giving them the chance they need to turn things around. Okay? I know you’re not a murderer. I’m fucking pissed, because guns- they shouldn’t- I wish you had fucking known better than to get caught up in that. But I don’t want you to leave.”

It’s quiet, then, for a long, long time. But they can’t stay down on the floor forever, so.

Nicky makes Joe get up and go to bed, when they finally get up, instead of just flopping onto the couch like he wants to, and starts acting fucking weird, even for him. Gets all worked up when Joe says he wants to shower, because he’s been bleeding and sweating and feels disgusting, insists on him leaving the door open and shouting if he feels like he’s going to pass out again. Also insists on him eating, after, when he’s dry and sprawled across his bed. Brings him some juice, and a glass of water, and a fucking bizarre sampling of food from the kitchen. Some dried mango, a granola bar, a sleeve of cookies, and a container of leftover pad thai. 

Joe looks at him like he’s insane, all that shit clutched in his hands as he looks for a place to set it down, because he is.

(And yet, Joe keeps him around).

“I’m not that hungry, man. Can you bring me a fucking pill, instead, so I can sleep?”

Nicky fixes him with an agitated look.

“You just- lost some blood, and almost passed out. Humor me, alright? Your blood sugar is probably- low, or what the fuck ever, or- you’re fucking dehydrated.”

Joe laughs at him, too fucking exhausted to see anything but the humour in all this, and Nicky frowns some more.

“Nicky, baby. You worried about me?”

He grins up at Nicky, knows his dimples are showing because his beard is trimmed tight these days, just a shadow. Lets his eyes crinkle up, and bats his eyelashes, just twice, for good measure.

Joe knows he’s cute, right. And after an episode like that, he tends to want to flaunt it for some attention, someone to ravish him for a night, make him forget. Usually in a club, but. This’ll do.

And Nicky might just be turning pink, spitting out insults as he spins around and locks himself in the bathroom (after delivering a pill to Joe), starts the shower up for himself, because he’s covered in Joe’s blood and sweat and the persistent odour of antiseptic, too.

What a fucking day, Joe thinks, leaning back against the pillows, munching on slices of mango between sips of water, feeling more cheerful. Texts Nile, confirms he doesn’t have to go in to work the next day. And then he remembers, abrupt and unbidden, the way Nicky had been looking at him earlier.

The smile falls off his face again, unease and unhappiness welling back up.

When Nicky comes back out again, in yet another stolen set of Joe’s clothes, he looks baffled to find Joe with all the lights off, shitty television on top of his dresser streaming Dracula, blankets all wrapped around him like he’s some kind of goth moth, waiting to hatch out of his evil little cocoon.

Nicky asks, “did you eat, man?”

Joe glares at him.

Nicky stares back, before walking around the bed and throwing himself onto the other side, grabbing the container of pad thai from the nightstand.

“Whatever. I’ll fucking eat it then. What are we watching?”

Joe hits the button on his controller, so that Nicky can see the title pop up on the screen.

“Cool,” Nicky mutters, and then he shuts up again. Doesn’t speak another word that entire night, but when the credits start rolling and Joe is too close to sleep to bother putting on anything else, he picks it up himself and puts on Silence of the Lambs.

He’s gone, when Joe wakes up in the morning. Later than he intended to, if the sunlight blaring through the window is to be trusted.

But there’s a glass of water on the nightstand, right beside a coffee from the corner store that’s gone cold by now, and another pill, so. It’s all just as well.


	2. chapter two

Joe wakes with a start, heart racing, muscles tensed and aching. Moonlight cuts hard and eery through his window, illuminating the sheen of sweat over his skin.

“Fuck.”

He scrubs a hand down his face, sitting up and swinging his legs over the edge of the mattress so that his feet are resting flat on the floor. The wood is chilly against his toes, and it helps him come back to himself.

Been awhile, since he last had a nightmare like that. One that had been too logical, too frightening, not quite a real memory but cold and gut wrenching enough that his brain, asleep, had thought it might have been. That made him feel like his skin was crawling, like he needed to get out, right away.

He gets up, leaving the bed a rumpled mess. Stops for a minute to stretch, try to get some of the tension to drain from his spine. Drains the remaining half glass of water on the nightstand.

Sitting beside the glass on the nightstand is the latest copy of the daily paper. On the front page is a giant, grainy shot of Joe, masked up, sword slicing through the air. It’d been taken while he was working on freeing a group of kids being held hostage in some janky warehouse on the north side of the city, a situation that only was able to escalate so far because the police had ties to the family running the fucking scheme, and hadn’t wanted to intervene until they were forced to.

The story accompanying the photo makes no mention of the events of that day, though. Of course it fucking doesn’t, because the police are one of the paper’s biggest advertisers. They love to suck each other’s dicks.

The story is about Joe and his fucking thief, of course. Nicky’s only been amping up the flirting since he and Joe actually started hanging out, bringing him up even when he isn’t asked. Meanwhile, Joe has started cocking his head and requesting for the reporters to remind him which sword wielding thief it is that they’re even talking about.

It makes for a good fucking laugh when he and Nicky read the cobbled-together stories back, that’s for sure. If Nicky didn’t have a reputation for being deranged before, now he has one for being _obsessed._

It makes Joe’s lips twitch up to see the absurd headline, which is something. Makes it easier to shake off the last dregs of nightmares and memories in order to take a minute in the bathroom, splash some cold water on his face before shuffling out to the kitchen to start his day only four or so hours fucking early. No way he’s going to be able to fall asleep again, so.

He’s not sure what it is that he’d been expecting to find in his kitchen, but it wasn’t Nicky, wearing fucking flannel pyjama pants, munching his way through a container of dates.

Joe feels very fucking exposed in only his briefs, suddenly.

Standing in the doorway of the kitchen, blinking to see if maybe this is a hallucination, he mutters, “I was planning to bake with those, you know. I’m expecting company tomorrow.”

Nicky winks at him, and shoves another handful of the dried fruit into his mouth before asking, “company? I’m not enough for you, sweetheart?”

Joe shoulders past him to get to the jar of instant coffee that’s replaced the coffee maker Nicky stole from him, half-convinced he’s still dreaming.

“You’re _too much_ for me, babe. It’s my fucking birthday tomorrow, so yeah. Having a little shindig, if you want to drop in.”

As Joe sets a pot of hot water boiling on the stove, spooning the coffee into his mug, Nicky’s hand appears to slide another empty one in beside it.

Joe puts some coffee grounds in that one, too.

“A party, huh?”

Nicky leans against the counter, chin propped up in his hand, considering.

He looks soft, like this. Not like a thief, or a street fighter, or a criminal. Just. Some dude with noticeable eyes and shoulders who spends all his free time in Joe’s apartment, just to flirt with him and eat his food and drive him crazy. Right.

“Yeah. Nothing too wild- three other people, excluding you and me. Do you make a habit of breaking in here at night, by the way?”

Nicky smiles, serene. Doesn’t answer the question, not really, because he’s Nicky.

“Why? You getting up to things you don’t want me to overhear? Is that why you came out here to find me, and aren’t sleeping, like a normal person should be at this hour?”

Joe doesn’t point out that by Nicky’s own definition, he just defined himself as an unusual person.

Just, hands him his mug of coffee, after pouring hot water over it and giving it a little stir, and shoves his hand into the pocket of Nicky’s pyjama pants. Pulls out his pack of smokes, and makes a face, ignoring the way his stomach heats when Nicky sways closer.

“Well, I’ve been known to sleepwalk. Sleep yell, too.”

Nicky’s smile loses some of its playfulness. His warmth is still very enticing, close enough that Joe could just pull him close, if he chose.

Nicky asks, subdued, “nightmares?”

Joe hums softly, ducking his head. Nicky’s fingers brush his wrist lightly, and Joe leans closer, taking a mouthful of coffee.

It’s not great. He misses his coffee machine.

Nicky makes a face after taking his own sip like he might regret that he stole it, now. Tries to hide it behind his mug, and then holds out his middle and pointer fingers to take the smoke Joe’s sucking on.

So Joe hands it over.

And, he’s a little bit obsessed with how the long sleeves of Nicky’s cotton shirt are drawn up over his pale knuckles, motions easy and sure as he brings the cigarette to his lips, and exhales a rolling cloud of smoke, blows it right into Joe's face.

The bags under his eyes are darker than normal, Joe thinks. One of them is due to the black eye he’d shown up with a few weeks earlier, only now faded down to green and yellow bruises.

But overall, he just looks worn out, exhausted and shifting closer as the seconds tic by, looking all open and earnest and sleepy in a way that Joe doesn’t really know what to do with. Wants to see more of.

He takes the smoke back, holding Nicky’s eye in a way that feels thrilling in its familiarity and comfort, and asks, “feel like watching a movie?”

Nicky blinks his tired eyes at Joe, and he smiles.

Nicky is passed out beside Joe less than ten minutes into The Truman Show, mouth hanging open, snoring away.

If he looked soft earlier, now he looks utterly defenceless in a way that’s as scary as it is sweet. As though he has no worries in the world, safe and belonging in Joe’s bed, like there’s nowhere else he should ever be. His lips pout out just a little in his sleep, and Joe is struck with the notion of leaning down and pressing their foreheads together, brushing up against Nicky’s curved nose and pressing gentle kisses against his soft mouth. Thinks about the way Nicky might inhale as he woke up, if he might taste like dates and shitty coffee, how warm he’d be all pressed up close, shivery and wanting in his tiredness, if maybe he’d whine like he does when Joe is taking care of his injuries, only lower and needier. If he might pull Joe closer, allowing him to take in his scent from as close as he can get, to touch his skin with reverence and gentle wonder, to drink him in and let himself get dizzy with it, sink into him the way you sink into sleep.

(He knows, in a way, deep down, with absolute surety, that Nicky would pull him closer).

Joe carefully pulls away from him, instead, even though he maybe would like to stay tucked under Nicky’s arm for a little longer. He’s too restless, too tired. Just, tosses the blanket up over him instead, watches with a smile he tries to repress as Nicky’s fingers twitch, subconsciously seeking the curve of Joe’s shoulder they’d been absently petting over as he dozed off, and then he stands. Turns the movie off, closes the bedroom door so that Nicky won’t be disturbed if he’s too loud, and he goes to see if there are enough dates left to make a decent sized batch of makroudh.

Nicky slips out sometime around lunch without so much as a goodbye to Joe, who’s working away in the kitchen, singing along terribly to the radio or on the phone to his mama, trying to get her recipes right, he’s not sure. Doesn’t come back when Andy, Quynh and Nile show up, doesn’t give them the satisfaction of knowing why Joe keeps glancing at the door like he’s expecting somebody else to walk through it.

Near the end of the night, though, after a brisk knock, a package shows up at Joe’s door, no delivery person in sight.

It turns out to be a coffee maker that’s just as impressive as the one Nicky took, all dressed up in its brand new box with a red bow and what appears to be a kiss smeared on with lipstick.

Nile’s not going to let him hear the end of that one for a long while.

*

Joe’s not a stalker, right.

He’s not in his own neighbourhood, not tonight. He’s staking out a block in a different corner of the city, trying to connect some dots and work out if the person he _suspects_ has been targeting single mothers in robberies and identity theft schemes is really the perpetrator.

It’s getting late, and he’s not getting very far, so he breaks for food. Pulls his hood tighter around his face and dips into a grungy place on the corner of the street, only half the lights working. Frowns at what he’s pretty sure is a cockroach skittering across the floor. Orders himself a sandwich that he can take to go.

The only reason he even looks up after stepping back to wait for his order is because he can hear agitated Italian ranting, and it makes him think of Nicky, which makes him smile, and draws his head and eyes up from the floor before he can even wonder if there’s a security camera in the joint.

And what do you know, through the little window the food gets passed through from the kitchen, there’s Nicky, stupid little chef’s hat keeping his hair tucked back from his face.

He’s telling some story that involves waving his knife around and getting yelled at by an older man with a bigger knife, not even quieting down a little as he goes back to chopping something Joe can't see.

Joe tries to stop his smile by sucking his lip into his mouth, and when that doesn’t work, he goes back to staring at the floor before Nicky can notice him watching.

Nicky still hasn’t stopped talking when Joe exits, already tearing into his shitty sandwich, smile still stubbornly stuck on his face.

Joe wonders if he might accidentally have turned into a stalker when, several hours later, he rounds into an alley that a loud ruckus has been spilling out of for the past hour, distracting him from keeping watch at his post across the street.

His mark never shows, so he figures he might as well go check out the commotion, see if there’s anything he can help with before he acknowledges that the night was a bust and heads home.

It’s some kind of makeshift fighting ring, that much is clear. Men talking and drinking and passing bills around. Those who aren’t viciously cheering on either of the current fighters, that is.

And, what do you know. One of them is cursing in Italian as the other one gets a hold around his neck.

It doesn’t last long, though, that hold, not long at all before Nicky flips their position and wrestles the taller guy down to the ground.

Nicky’s _ruthless._

He’s baring his teeth and hammering his fists like lightning, blood gushing out of his nose as he bares down.

Joe feels kind of bad for the other guy, but mostly he’s just impressed. Amused, maybe. Fond. Knows exactly what it feels like to be on the other side of those punches, but knows that the smiles he receives afterwards are a lot more than this guy is going to get.

He lights a smoke and leans against the wall, unnoticed among the crowd of spectators.

Someone calls a count, and Nicky tears himself up and off of the guy the second it’s called in his favour. Accepts a water bottle, sucking half of the liquid down, throat working quick and needy before dumping the rest over his head. He works carefully to slow and even out his own breathing even as his chest heaves, already sizing up the guy who’s stepping forward to replace the one he’s just defeated.

Joe absentmindedly flicks his tongue against his cigarette, telling himself the only reason he’s turned on is because of the ridiculous fucking caricature-esque display of macho masculinity, all the sweat and testosterone. Capable men who are getting their hands all over each other, spurred on by the watching eyes, men who would probably either punch Joe in the face or cower away from him in fear if they knew what he was thinking about doing to them, or having them do to him as he watched them fight.

But, as with most things in Joe’s life these days, that’s not really it.

It’s _Nicky,_ is all.

Joe’s gone before the next round starts.

And when Nicky shows up at his apartment later that night, or early the next morning, or whatever, bloody and sweaty, Joe’s waiting with the first aid kit and the frozen peas. Same as always. 

*

Joe is not expecting to be caught in a head lock.

He’s not expecting _anything_. He isn’t even masked up. Walking around bare-faced in a leather jacket and jeans, because he’s off the fucking clock, making his way home from dinner at Andy and Quynh’s place. He’s got a container of delicious leftovers tucked under his arm, whistling absentmindedly while taking a shortcut through the alley he found Nicky in, all those months ago.

And then, suddenly, he’s being grabbed from behind. The leftovers topple down onto the ground with a clatter, Joe’s body kicking into high gear before the container even hits the ground and spills.

 _Strong shoulders_ , is the first thing he thinks, grunting and instinctively clawing at the arms wrapped firm around his neck and chest. He would be reaching for a weapon, if he had thought to bring one with him. This doesn’t usually happen, though, not on a random Sunday night when he’s making a ten minute walk. So he’s unarmed, defenceless.

 _Smart,_ is the next thing he thinks, when the legs attached to the person shuffle and dodge Joe’s maneuvers as though the moves had been choreographed. As though they’ve fought before, and the person knows Joe’s style.

 _Not really trying_ , he thinks next, as he realizes that while his mobility is limited, he can breathe just fine. One of the hands is squeezed around his bicep, digging in rough and unrelenting. It’s an ache, but it’s not all that unpleasant. Could be very nice, he thinks, if the context were different.

 _Nicky,_ is the final thing he thinks, when the familiar scent of Old Spice and warmth hits him and registers in his brain, and that insane little snort of laughter goes off just next to his ear.

“Fuck,” he grunts, feeling Nicky’s nose press in behind his ear, gasping when he reaches back and pulls at a fistful of soft hair only to be granted in return a half-choked off whimper, low and surprised, before Nicky releases him and takes a step back.

In that second before he moves away, the warmth and firm press of Nicky’s muscles all against his back, those strong arms around him, breath on his neck, the adrenaline- all of it makes Joe’s mouth fucking _water,_ makes him want to round on Nicky and tackle him to the fucking ground just to get him close again _._

“What the hell, Nicky?”

Joe whirls around with a huff, not quite able to keep the grin off of his face.

Nicky’s grinning too, cheeks flushed attractively with the exertion. He isn’t wearing his mask either, looking way too normal and fucking cosy, wearing what Joe is pretty sure is his own favorite hoodie. The one he thought got stolen at the laundromat.

“I saw you from across the street,” Nicky offers, like that’s enough of a reason to jump somebody in a dark alley, somebody you haven’t seen in almost three weeks because you’re insane and don’t know how to pick up a goddamn phone.

And, if you’re Nicky, Joe supposes that’s all the reason you really need.

“No shit,” Joe replies, advancing on him as laughter bubbles out of his throat.

He doesn’t even realize he’s going in for a hug until Nicky is opening his arms to accommodate, squeezing Joe tight and familiar and lovely. So he ruffles his hair, and drinks in the laughter, and smacks an exaggerated kiss to Nicky’s cheek before he pulls away just because he feels like it.

And then, of course, Nicky has to grab Joe’s face and smack an exaggerated kiss to his _lips_ before patting his chest and smiling at him like Joe’s the best thing he’s ever seen.

Joe gapes at him, hands still loosely clutching his shoulders, eyes fluttering open seconds too late, mouth dropped open in shock as his toes curl in his shoes.

Nicky, just. Pats him on the chest again, and then slings an arm around his shoulders to start shuffling them out of the alley, as though nothing out of the ordinary has occurred.

Fucking Nicky.

“You heading home? I was just about to come over.”

Joe shakes his head, resigned, and says, “yeah, man. I don’t know what I can feed you, because you just made me dump my leftovers all over the fucking ground, but come on over.”

Nicky squeezes his shoulders.

“Perfect.”

They amble on past the news stand, headline story on the daily paper once again about the obsessive thief and the mysterious hero. The tone of the story implies that the hero personally condones the narrative, even though that’s far from the truth. Next to the story is a feature with the police, all smiling faces and vaguely threatening promises.

The news corporation’s logo sits stark and yellow, stamped onto the corner of each paper, the creepy eyes of the CEO and his janky smile following them and everyone else around the street. 

Nicky’s got the copy he’d stolen off the stand not ten minutes earlier folded and tucked into his back pocket. Him and Joe are going to have a lot of fun mocking it, later.

*

Joe’s not unused to getting sudden, vague letters communicating little more than a time and place to rendezvous.

As much as he hates the police, a certain amount of collaboration has proved necessary in order to keep _himself_ out of prison. So there is a contact who knows Joe’s name and address, and if there’s a job that they want to pass off on Joe, or something he needs to know, or, to the police’s humiliation and Joe’s glee, something they can’t get done without him, an unmarked letter will appear and tell him where to go.

And, maybe Joe should have picked up on the fact that it was strange that on this day, the letter that came was written in pink, sparkly gel pen rather than the respectable blue or black ink of every previous letter.

Whatever. He tries not to judge.

He shows up to the address all the same in good faith, masked up, sword slung over his shoulder. It’s some kind of storage facility, only half finished, mid-construction. There are rows and rows of lockers that are offset by a ballroom’s worth of empty space, concrete floors and unfinished walls, construction materials scattered around and illuminated only by the moonlight that cuts in through the holes in the walls where the windows are going to go.

Standing in the middle of the empty space, also masked up, sword on his waist, is Nicky.

Joe should have known. And he did, in a way.

He calls out, amused, “you couldn’t have just picked up the fucking phone?”

Nicky spins around with a flourish, poised and deadly. Doesn’t say a word, just draws his sword out of its sheathe with a sound that makes heat curl hot and quick in Joe’s belly.

Their swords will do all the talking, then.

Joe’s is freed with an answering _shrrrk_ , and they’re off.

Nicky prowls towards him, dark and menacing like a predator. The picture of lithe grace.

Joe strides forward like a challenger in the colosseum, all valour and viper-like intent.

They meet in the centre of the room and circle slowly. Set the tempo.

Joe strikes first, and Nicky meets him with a deafening _clash_ , a riptide under the killing moon, illuminating them like dancers in the dark.

Nicky spins, and Joe ducks. Swelling crescendo, and lethal swishing through the air, they crash together again and again. Joe charges, and Nicky side steps. Nicky goes for the throat, and Joe goes for the heart. Joe pushes, and Nicky pushes back, their feet shuffling over the floor, breaths carefully measured even as their hearts race out of time, pirouettes spinning out of control.

It’s a fucked up waltz, a mutually assured destruction in 3/4 time, the beat growing more irregular and frenzied as the slashing goes on, blades cutting closer and closer to the quick with each slash. A nick to Joe’s thigh, a scrape over Nicky’s forearm. Their eyes meeting and holding, a tsunami and a wind storm, sucking each other in. Quick feet and quicker hips, getting close enough to smell each other’s sweat, share body heat before swaying away again, finding ins to vulnerable places and faking away after a teasing swipe, before the dance resets again.

And then Joe makes a mistake.

He overcompensates, doesn’t consider that Nicky could be so delicate, so precise, not with the fucking longsword. Finds himself being backed into a wall.

He twirls like a baton in the hands of an anxious conductor, and their swords _screech_ together, the friction unrelenting because neither will let up.

A flash of teeth as the crossed blades come close to Joe’s neck. A growl when they’re pushed back towards Nicky’s.

And, finally, the closing, resounding climax, cymbals clashing, and Joe’s sword clattering to the ground as Nicky pulls him flush to his chest, back to front, sword poised at his throat.

A few seconds of silence to breathe. Nicky’s hard against joe’s ass, and Joe’s pushing himself closer, fighting the urge to thrust his hips forward into the empty air, get some relief on his erection, straining his pants, moaning like a starving man. The tapering off of their song before the imaginary crowd roars in applause.

Then, Nicky’s sword clattering onto the floor, their heaving breaths and racing pulses fading back in, all the adrenaline breaking hot and invigorating as Joe twists around, rips Nicky’s stupid hood away with a _scrrrrch_ before he finds his mouth, knocking his own mask off in the process.

And then they’re dancing for real.

Nicky whines like an animal, desperate and wounded when he gets Joe’s tongue in his mouth, pawing at his ass, pulling him forward rough and unforgiving in a filthy grind. They’re too out of breath, still, trying to taste and learn and feel each other out, half just panting into each other’s mouths, moving hungrily against each other and petting and touching with trembling hands.

If only the papers were around to capture _this._

Joe kicks a foot behind Nicky’s ankle to get him to go down, absorbing the shock by ducking and pulling Nicky down on top of himself, head tipping back and thudding against the floor, sounds spilling unbidden from his throat when Nicky uses the momentum to rub himself all over, doesn’t give Joe the room to do anything with his thighs except let them fall open wide so that Nicky fits in between. So he can thrust forward in a way that isn’t nearly satisfying enough, too many layers between them, just makes them desperate for more.

Nicky _yowls,_ hips stuttering forward when Joe rakes his nails down his chest, catches his nipple through his stupid spandex.

“Your suit is fucking stupid,” Joe spits, toes curling when Nicky finally bends over him and puts his fucking back into it, makes Joe feel like he’s going to catch on _fire,_ cock pulsing thick and hot and needy in his pants, unable to stay still as Nicky pants against his neck, feels Nicky inhale, nose pressed into the spot behind Joe’s ear, slick with his sweat, listens to him whine and feels him hump his hips faster like the smell of Joe’s sweat alone is doing it for him, and Joe is so fucking into him it _aches._

Nicky asks, “should we do it naked next time?”

Joe moans just at the thought, just at hearing Nicky even _say_ that, and. He knows Nicky was joking, meant the sword fighting, because he’s insane, but he wants Nicky naked _now_ and he wants _this_ , what they’re doing now, wants this naked, with Nicky’s skin and his sweat and his bitter fucking precum leaking from his cock that he’s still grinding insistently against Joe, wants this and all and more.

Hooks his thigh firm around Nicky’s waist, fingers scratching at his broad fucking shoulders as he whines, thinks that this will definitely do, not a chance they don’t get off like this, just when the ringing of sirens in the street starts to grow uncomfortably close.

Nicky’s head whips up and around, and he’s cursing for the wrong reasons, pulling Joe up, and Joe wants to punch him in the face.

“Tell me you didn’t fucking seduce me under guise of a sword fight on a construction site that _has a security system._ ”

Nicky just slaps his ass before scooping up both of their swords and dragging Joe towards the far end of the building, where there’s a hole that’s going to become a window someday, one that they can climb out of.

He grins at Joe like a maniac, and Joe is fucking _gone_ for him.

“Well, you’ll just have to take me home now, won’t you?”

Later, in Joe’s bed with all their clothes off, it’s much better.

Nicky’s neck and chest flush a very pretty shade of pink while Joe sucks him off, and it’s creeping slowly up to his ears, too.

“ _Hnng_ , fuck.”

Nicky’s struggling not to buck up, keeps twitching and tugging rough and needy at Joe’s hair, which only makes Joe moan around him, spit making an obscene mess all over as he licks at and plays with the head, trying not to let himself grind against the mattress too much, fondling Nicky’s balls and the length of him his mouth isn’t reaching with his hands.

Fuck, Nicky smells incredible like this, hot and heady.

His hips twitch up again as Joe watches him roll his own nipple between his fingers, mouth falling open as he rubs his cheek into Joe’s pillow, and then Joe’s eyelashes flutter, lids falling shut when he can’t help put roll his hips down, try to take some of the pressure off.

It’s messy when he pulls off, string of spit clinging to his lip for long seconds, drawing Nicky’s eyes and making him lick his own lips.

“Get the fuck up here,” Nicky tells him, and Joe does.

The kissing, it’s very good. Makes Joe whine and cling, how it seems like Nicky wants to taste himself, taste every last drop, tongue hot and desperate, leaves him wanting and whimpering as Nicky rolls them over and adjusts so that their hard cocks are sliding together, pulsing hot and hard and needy as they pant into each other’s mouths.

It’s many, many more kisses than Joe usually gets when he does this with men he finds at the club. And, it’s _Nicky_.

The kisses alone are making Joe tremble.

“Fuck my thighs,” he murmurs without really thinking about it. Not beyond wanting those arms around him, and to hear Nicky desperate, feel him lose his patience, feel him bite and grasp and claim as he comes.

Nicky bites Joe’s lip at the request, and his hips stutter, cock pulsing with a sticky bead.

“Lube?”

“Nightstand.”

Nicky dives to get it, and Joe turns over onto his side, panting out a soft “fuck,” into the pillow as he fists around himself, allows himself one needy punch of his hips forward into his hand.

Peers over his shoulder when he doesn’t hear the snick of a cap, finds Nicky watching him, mesmerized, cock hard and dark between his legs, glistening and needy, mouth hanging open.

He seems to come back to himself at whatever he sees on joe’s face, then, shuffling closer and squeezing lube onto his fingers.

“I’ll just- mm.”

He trails off, and Joe shifts to allow his hand to smear the lube over his thighs, shivering, gasping and cursing when Nicky takes it upon himself to fondle Joe a little, just because he can. Makes Joe's brain forget everything except how to yearn, flashing warm all over, insistent pull in his tummy at those big, warm hands, working man's fingers caressing him in his most intimate place.

“Nicky,” Joe growls at him, and then Nicky’s getting his slick hand around himself, and Joe shifts a little to get ready for him.

Nicky doesn’t push between his thighs right away. Oh no, first he has to gently grasp Joe’s waist, and nose into the back of his neck, inhale right where the sweat gathers at his hairline and then begin sucking a mark behind Joe’s ear. Has to cosy all up to him, warm and close so Joe can feel how _into it_ he is, how harsh his breathing has gone, touching Joe all reverent and gentle, whispering like a secret, “you’re the most gorgeous person I’ve ever seen. I want you so bad I feel like I’m insane.”

Joe can only gasp into the pillow, reach back and squeeze Nicky’s hand.

And then, finally, Nicky begins rubbing his cock over Joe’s skin, and it’s heaven and hell and Joe has never been so hard in his _life._

When Nicky finally begins thrusting against him, clutching him tight and grunting softly at the hot, wet press of it, Joe’s head is fucking spinning, and he’s panting, and Nicky is still kissing his neck, and he can’t stay still, squirming and thrusting back and feeling himself flush hot.

 _“Mmff,”_ Nicky’s hips jerk forward faster when Joe’s thighs spasm, low moan spilling out of his throat as Nicky’s fingers stop clutching his hip so tight, instead tickling over his lower belly and slowly getting closer to his weeping cock.

When he finally touches, finally gets his hand around him, tentative and curious and purposeful, Joe _mewls_.

Nicky’s pressing firmer against him, now, biting at his shoulder, hips working faster, feverishly getting himself off between Joe’s thighs, tugging Joe off hard and quick, twisting his fingers around his head like he’s touching _himself_ and working so hard to get off, Joe can’t take it.

“Nicky,” he gasps, back arching.

But Nicky beats him there, fist tightening and hips stuttering forward as he moans breathy and low in Joe’s ear, hot and satisfied, spilling sticky between Joe’s thighs.

Of course Joe follows him, then, pleasure unspooling hot in his belly as Nicky works him over. Comes and comes and _comes_ , spurting messy over Nicky’s fingers and the sheets and his own skin, both of them working messy against each other until they ride it out, and then they’re just laying together, holding each other.

Nicky keeps nuzzling his nose against Joe’s skin, warm and affectionate.

And at some point, instinctively, Joe’s fingers have twisted through Nicky’s. The hand that had been on his cock, now sticky with his release.

Nicky slides back gingerly, slowly, after one smiley, lingering kiss to the back of Joe’s neck.

Joe can feel the wetness dripping over his thighs.

Peeks over his shoulder with a raised eyebrow, and Nicky is fishing over the side of the bed for a shirt to clean them up with. Okay.

Nicky grins bright and beautiful when he catches Joe’s eye, just like the moon over his shoulder, out the window, and Joe is helpless to do anything but light up like the sun in return, dimples breaking out of his cheeks before he can think.

He feels sleepy, warm, safe and comfy as Nicky gently wipes him off, doing his best to get the bit of wetness that’s spilled over onto the sheets, too.

When he’s done with it, tossed it to the laundry basket, he hovers a moment at the edge of the bed. Awkward, maybe, before he takes it upon himself to get close again, hypnotize Joe with his stupid eyes, smirk at him and cup his cheek with a gentle hand, sweep him up into another dreamy kiss.

Leaves Joe breathless when he pulls away, cheeks warm again, and then rests their foreheads together, lacing their fingers and snuggling closer, settling like he intends to stay awhile.

And, he’d fucking better. Joe’s heartbeat picks up, sudden and absurd, thinking of all the times Nicky has slipped out on him, and he finds himself clutching tighter at his shoulders, turning his nose to rub at Nicky’s cheek, face half hidden in Joe’s neck.

“Nicky, I swear if you pull your fucking disappearing act tonight, I will- I’ll-”

Nicky pulls back, surprise flashing over his face as Joe feels the beginnings of panic rising up in his chest. Because this is the part where Nicky gets distant and cagey and weird, and then fucks off just long enough for Joe to miss him. Isn’t it?

But Nicky just kisses him again, syrupy slow and sweet and devastatingly perfect all over again, and Joe melts under him, all the fight leeching out at once. The whine spills out of his throat before he can even make sense of the aching desire that’s welling sharply in his chest, clutching onto Nicky like he needs him to fucking survive.

Nicky shushes him, softly, before kissing him again, deeper, warmer, holding him closer and petting over his curls as Joe clings to him, slowing down to gentle brushes of their lips and noses until Joe feels like he can breathe, again, confident by the firm press of their bodies that Nicky isn’t going anywhere, not this time.

And, _fuck_ if Nicky isn’t the best kisser Joe has ever had. He kisses like he flirts, and like he _fights_ , cutting and teasing and intimate and _satisfying_ , nips and barely there brushes that make Joe tremble with want until Nicky presses in, finally, languid and firm and lovely, makes Joe’s toes curl.

By the way they’re going, Joe might not even have to worry about Nicky taking off, because he’s pretty sure they could go again. He’s tired, and he aches, and Nicky must too, but Joe _wants_ , can feel Nicky match his interest the same way he matches him in everything else.

As much as he feels like he should say something, then, there are no words.

But then Nicky says, exhaled between gentler kisses to Joe’s cheek, “I’ll stay.”

And that’s all the words Joe needed, really.

They don’t go again. Nicky keeps kissing, wordless, soft touches skimming over Joe’s side until he’s yawning. And then he curls as close to Joe as he can get, tucking himself up endearingly tiny and cosy for his stature, snuggling aggressively as though he likes to be held just as much as Joe likes to hold.

Joe watches him, struck with a simmering kind of awe at the duality of this man in his bed. This enigma, this thief, this unbearable fucking asshole, this fighter, this lover. This man who has the capacity to steal and punch and slash and bite and kick and fuck like a machine, all brutality, and this man who can laugh and hug and caress and care, who can make love slow and gentle, kiss and touch and talk like any romantic could dream, can do it better, because he’s real and he’s Nicky. This man who can draw the full spectrum from Joe in all the same ways, all the beauty and brutality.

This man, who, half-asleep, eyelids heavy, cheek all snuggled into Joe’s shoulder, eyelashes glinting soft in the moonlight, is beautiful and tragic and too much for Joe. Too much to exist in one human, in one lifetime, in one lover, and yet he’s here, and Joe doesn’t ever want him to leave.

He brushes his fingers through Nicky’s hair, and Nicky smiles up at him. Soft.

Joe kisses his nose, and Nicky laughs, low and sleepy in his throat. He shifts so that he can nuzzle under Joe’s chin before taking his lips again, drawing it out teasing and barely there, smiling into it when Joe shudders and chases his lips.

“This is nice, hm?”

Nicky is smiling at him, warm and unguarded, giggle in his voice.

 _Fuck_ , he’s beautiful.

Joe stares into his half lidded eyes, and brushes some of his fine hair behind his ear. Flicks a finger at the little silver hoop in his lobe, just to make him smile and scrunch up his nose, because it tickles.

“Yeah, babe. It’s nice.”

Nicky _is_ gone when Joe wakes up in the morning, but then he always is. And this time, the cup of coffee left on the nightstand is still warm. Like he’d taken longer to laze about in bed with Joe before he got up and went to buy it for him, so. It’s all just as well, and Joe gets ready for work with a smile on his face.


	3. chapter three

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TRIGGER WARNING: this chapter contains explicit descriptions of gun violence, and Joe getting triggered by fireworks.

Part of playing the hero is being available for press conferences, every once in a while.

Joe can deal. Answer some questions, shake some hands, try not to say anything too cold (honest) about the police or the press.

It’s an event sponsored by the paper, which is annoying as always, the CEO of the news corporation making a big deal out of getting a photograph with Joe. But the condition on his attendance had been for the lion’s share of the proceeds to go to a couple of different mutual aid funds, so he puts up with it.

It’s going fine. A lot of the questions are just requests for reassurance on bad guys that Joe has already taken care of, or people with personal questions, making attempts to entice Joe into sharing his true identity. Nothing out of the ordinary.

And then a man buttoned up in a huge coat, hands shoved deep in the pockets, face hidden behind a ridiculous, wide-brimmed hat steps up to the microphone.

When he opens up his mouth, Joe almost groans.

(it’s _Joe_ ’s ridiculous hat. Nicky must have stolen it right out of his closet.)

“May I ask, sir, if you’ve ever crossed paths with that thief?”

Joe is glad he’s wearing his mask, because he’s having a lot of trouble keeping a straight face, suddenly, staring out into the crowd of people.

“Which thief would that be?”

The man takes a _lengthy_ pause, and Joe half-seriously thinks about putting a lock on his refrigerator so Nicky can’t get into it anymore. Maybe cutting off the food supply is how Joe gets rid of him, like any other pest.

(Well. He might just miss him, then.)

“The one who’s obsessed with you. With the longsword, and the _gorgeous_ eyes-”

Joe leans in close to his own mic to interrupt, lips twitching.

“No. Next question, please.”

*

For a thief, Nicky is incredibly generous in bed.

As in, he gets off on giving Joe pleasure the same way he gets pleased and happy when Joe enjoys the food he cooks. Gets proud and squirmy, all smiles and faintly pink cheeks. Gets shy and blustery about asking to do things like have Joe fuck his mouth, as if _Joe_ is the one who would be making a concession, there.

They quickly broached the conversation about their safe words and what they were and weren’t okay with, after the sword fighting rendezvous. Doubly important, Joe had expressed to Nicky, since they make a habit of fighting each other, and it’s important to him that they draw a clear line.

Nicky’s pupils were already blown wide just from the conversation, and he’d said, offhand, easy as breathing, completely earnest, _“_ I would let you do anything to me. Anything that you tell me to do, whatever you want. I’m in.”

_Fuck._

As enticing as that idea was in theory, it also prompted Joe to give him a vaguely threatening spiel in return about how he isn’t going to continue this if Nicky won’t be upfront when he’s uncomfortable with something, anything Joe might want. Which led Nicky to clarify that he would absolutely be upfront (“fuck off, asshole. As if I would ever shut up and take your shit when I didn’t want to”).

He’s just certain that _Joe_ will be the one who might not be on board with some of the things _Nicky_ is into, which is completely fine, of course. And then he’d taken Joe’s hand and said that he hopes Joe will be just as willing to use his word and say no to him.

They got through roughly ten further minutes of discussing what some of those things that they might like to do to and with each other would entail before they were kissing, actually, getting off quick and dirty, pants shoved down just far enough to get their cocks out and jerk each other off, so.

Huzzah. Joe’s found himself a little _freak._

He comes home one day, cursing and ranting his frustrations out at Nicky, who is hanging out on his couch, waiting up for him. He’s all wound up after a fight that was cut off frustratingly early, police showing up to steal all the glory on a case he’s spent fucking _months_ working on.

Nicky just gives him _a look._

And that’s how he ends up sprawled across the sofa, still sweaty, blood boiling, Nicky between his legs, red-faced and drooling, swallowing him down like it’s his favorite thing to do in the world. Whimpering and eager, cushion shoved under his own hips so he can grind into it as he works on Joe, because he’s everything Joe’s ever dreamed of, or something.

“Fuck, Nicky. Your _mouth_ -”

Joe gasps, hips jerking up to shove himself deeper, fingers twisting tighter into Nicky’s hair, watches Nicky’s toes curl.

Nicky’s eyes are closed, breaths coming heavy and carefully measured through his nose. Has one hand curled tight around Joe’s thigh, fingernails digging in sharp and insistent in a way that makes Joe twitch in his mouth.

_“Use me, please,” Nicky had murmured against Joe’s lips, shivering under Joe’s restless hands, “use my mouth to get off.”_

Joe groans, now, face screwing up in pleasure, hand that’s not twisted into Nicky’s hair grasping at the arm of the couch.

Nicky slides his tongue messily along the length of him, encouraging.

“I want,” Joe grunts, soft and needy, snapping his cock shallow and quick into the heat of Nicky’s mouth, “to come on your face. Nicky, please? Can I- _uh_ , fuck-”

A high pitched sound comes out of Nicky’s throat, then, and he shudders, mouth going completely lax, delicious whine wrapping all around Joe along with his spit and his hot breaths as Nicky’s hips punch down into that pillow- once, twice, his ears getting impossibly redder as he undulates through his orgasm, knees pushing further apart as he humps down, just from sucking Joe off, _fuck._

Joe moans loud and low and satisfied, just fucking _watching_ him, pulling himself back just far enough that he slides out of Nicky’s mouth, hand leaving his hair to jerk himself off with just a few brutal strokes, spilling messy and hot all over Nicky’s shocked, blissed out face.

And, blinking down at his spent dick in his own hand, Nicky’s face streaked with his release, spit all down his chin, wetness around his eyes, pupils huge, mouth still hanging open as he pants before tentatively poking his tongue out to lick his lips clean of Joe- _fuck._

Joe shudders, giving himself a few seconds to breathe before he reaches out to pet through Nicky’s hair.

“You still with me, babe? Feel okay?”

Nicky blinks at him a moment, before his warm cheek flops down against Joe’s thigh, smile curling onto his swollen lips. Makes an even bigger mess, spit and release smearing all over.

“Mhm. Feelin’ fuckin’ _good.”_

*

It happens when they’re walking through the alley. Their alley, as Joe’s started to think of it. The one from which he first took Nicky in like a feral cat, if Joe is telling the story. Or, if Nicky is telling it, the alley where Joe swooped in to rescue the madly attractive rogue thief, all sexy and heroic and fairy-tale like.

If we’re trying to be poetic about it, the universe has a sick penchant for tragic symmetry.

If we aren’t trying to be poetic about it, life is a flaming fucking dumpster fire and Joe is _so_ sick of it sometimes, so furious and disgusted and desperately sad at things he can’t precisely pinpoint that it’s a wonder he ever gets out of bed at all.

(That’s why he doesn’t, sometimes. And Nicky laments over those days when Joe doesn’t interact with him, when he stays shut up in his room even when Nicky clatters around with his first aid kit or in his kitchen. The same way Joe laments when Nicky disappears for days or weeks at a time.)

There’s noise like explosions, like fucking _gunshots_ , loud and close, over the sound of children’s laughter, and it’s the last thing Joe expected to hear while strolling down the street with Nicky, hand in hand, carefree and laughing under the late afternoon sunset.

They _were_ hand in hand. Until the noise started, and then suddenly Joe was on the ground, hands over his ears like a different night years and years ago, terrified.

Except there’s no danger. Not that Joe can convince himself of that, because the fireworks are still going, and the kids down the alley are laughing at them, excited and eager as their parents set off a few test rounds for later, for after the sun sets.

Nicky is looking back and down at him with confusion and concern, and Joe feels like he’s moving at hyper speed, like Nicky and everything else around him are stuck in sludge.

This is wrong, can’t be right. Joe has a calendar with all the firework holidays marked off in bright red pen, just like the therapist he used to see showed him to do. Fuck, when was the last time he thought to check the calendar?

Nicky says Joe’s name, muted and thick and strange through the ringing in Joe’s ears, and reaches down like he’s going to touch him, maybe.

Joe shoves himself further back against the dirty wall, a cruel reenactment of Nicky all those months ago, of Joe leaning over him, trying to help, trying to _breathe_ , and Nicky cowering away.

Except, now it’s Joe who can’t bare the idea of hands on him.

 _“No,_ fuck. Please don’t touch me. _”_

Nicky crouches down in front of him, trying to hold Joe’s gaze, hands up and open, non-threatening. There are no masks this time, and they _know_ each other. Joe _knows_ that Nicky is somebody safe, which helps, in theory. Even as he feels helpless and brittle and volatile, even as his chest thumps painfully and he can’t quite convince himself that the safety he sees is reality, it helps that he’s staring into the eyes of somebody he trusts.

Nicky wipes a hand over his mouth, careful.

“Fuck. I hear you, honey. I respect that this isn’t what you need right this minute, you know I do. But the problem is the fireworks, right? There are going to be more, so we need to go, right now. Please let me take you inside.”

Joe’s too dizzy with the way the blood is rushing out of his limbs, his pulse racing, curses and gropes for Nicky’s hand because he understands that Nicky’s saying it’s not going to stop, the noise isn’t going to stop.

Nicky squeezes his hand back just as tight, and then starts tugging, forcing Joe to get up from the ground.

Nicky gets an arm around Joe’s shoulders, and Joe feels crazy. Feels like every person they pass is staring him down as they hurry down the street, that they know he can’t control himself, trying not to twitch and not aware at all if he’s succeeding or not, stomach plunging anew, again and again, with the sporadic crackle and boom of explosions in the sky.

Nicky’s silent, uncharacteristically. Keeps his hold on Joe firm, only murmuring soft words when Joe digs his fingers into his side too hard.

They make it home, though, and the noise fades away enough that Joe can almost catch his breath.

He leans against the wall, blinking rapidly, lips parted just barely, manic breaths puffing through, palms spread wide and flat over the drywall, while Nicky curses and undoes all of Joe’s locks.

When the door finally swings open, Joe doesn’t move.

Nicky softens, beside him. He doesn’t reach out for him, because he knows Joe doesn’t want that.

Joe is staring at the book that’s still resting, abandoned, against the far wall. It’s covered in a smattering of dust and dirt, now. Looks like it belongs out there.

Eyes still glued to it, he asks, “what holiday is it?”

Nicky inches closer.

“Don’t know, babe. I think it’s a long weekend.”

Joe stiffly reaches out and grasps Nicky’s forearm, and inside they go.

Joe releases him when the door shuts, and steps back so that Nicky can lock them all again. Doesn’t bother to kick off his shoes, just stalks into the kitchen.

Nicky appears, not fifteen seconds later. He finds Joe sitting on the floor, back to the refrigerator, face pressed against his knees.

“Could you turn on the radio?”

It comes out muffled against his knees, and Nicky doesn’t say anything, so Joe’s not sure he’s even heard. But then he flinches when pop music blares into the room, upbeat and vaguely awful.

Joe would prefer the silence, but he doesn’t want to hear it when the firework shows start up for real, so. The radio is the best option.

He’s not sure what Nicky’s doing while he goes through his routine, rocking and counting and breathing, but he can smell chocolate, warm and sweet. It helps to focus on that smell.

And when he looks up, a long while later, there’s Nicky. Sitting beside him, back against the cupboards, two mugs in his hands.

He’s silently mouthing along to whatever new fucking Ariana Grande is on the charts this week. Seems to know all the words.

Joe sniffs, rubbing his ruddy cheek against his knee. Smiles a little, watching, as Nicky just keeps going. Smiles wide in return around the words.

The song ends, and Nicky sips out of his mug.

Joe reaches out for the other one, pleased with the warmth against his palm. Doesn’t even flinch at the brush of Nicky’s fingers against his.

The fridge is nice and cold against his back, and he finds that the contrast in sensations is lovely. Makes him feel less numb.

The exhaustion, the ache of his muscles, that’s the same as always.

And Nicky’s steady presence, well.

They’re in for a long night, if he’s staying. Joe knows if he sleeps, it won’t be peacefully.

(Of course Nicky stays).

(They stay up together until it’s late enough that the fireworks are definitely through, and Joe lets Nicky turn off the radio. Nicky offers to teach Joe how to make pierogis from scratch, and they add curry powder and cinnamon to the potato filling just because they can. They joke about starting their own restaurant after, as they demolish the batch they come up with, trying to decide if it counts as breakfast because the sun is coming up.)

(They don’t go to bed that night, but the next one, they snuggle up early and fall asleep before the sun even sets.)

(Things are going okay. Good, even.)

*

Joe’s never been fucked against a wall before.

“ _Oh-_ Nicky, _fffuck_ ,” he moans, licking his lips, pleasure thrumming through him like electricity, buzzing like an exposed circuit as Nicky grinds into him, deep and quick, alternating between muffling his own grunts into Joe’s neck and dipping up for hungry kisses.

There’s no room for either of them to get a hand around his cock, like this. Nicky’s got one arm braced against the wall, and the other is grasping his ass, keeping him held up, his own legs clamped like a vice around Nicky’s waist.

Joe’s arms are wrapped tight around him. Fingers scratching down his back, pulling his hair periodically just for the way it makes his hips jerk a little harder.

A droplet of sweat drips down Nicky’s nose. Joe licks it off before his head thumps back against the wall, his whole body jerking in time with Nicky’s thrusts, a delicious shudder racking through him as his entire spine tingles, Nicky’s teeth scraping over his skin.

The angle isn’t quite perfect, limitations of the position including not being able to twist his hips _just so_ , but the rest of the experience makes up for it.

Nicky, moaning like he can’t help it, all of his muscles flexing as he holds Joe in place, him and his broad fucking shoulders, scarred and bruised as they are, doing all the work, putting his back into it and giving Joe no option but to _take it_ , to mewl and pant and try not to black out with the insistent heat of it all. His cock, hard and aching, teased with the friction of being caught between their bellies, each thrust rubbing him hot and teasing, just enough to make him needier, not quite enough to get him off.

Heat pools between his legs, creeps up his neck as he squirms helplessly, driven mad by Nicky’s frustrated growling and insistent grinding up into him.

He arches his back as far as he can on a whim, body working insistently against his conscious will for _moremoremore_.

It makes Nicky gasp shaky and sudden in his ear, letting out a pleased little whine that makes Joe’s thighs clench just a little harder.

“You’re so _good,_ Joe- unng, fuck. Want this all the time, want you hard and getting off on my cock all the time.”

Joe licks his lips, eyes sliding shut and fingers wrapping around Nicky’s bicep, soft and feverish ‘ _uh_ ’s slipping out in time with Nicky’s thrusts. Remembers, abruptly, waking up to Nicky whimpering in his sleep, grinding his ass back into Joe’s cock and panting lightly into the pillow before Joe woke him up, fascinated and enjoying the show and the attention, honestly, but a little overwhelmed with how close he already was. How desperate his own sleepy rutting was into Nicky’s movements, hard and delicious, almost too close to convince himself to stop, moaning soft and sleepy and surprised into the back of Nicky’s neck. Wanted to find out what was going on in Nicky’s pretty little head that had him so eager and pliant and _warm_ in Joe’s arms.

 _“Dreamed about fucking you against a wall,”_ Nicky’d whispered, shaky and low. He’d admitted it only after a lovely amount of teasing, following a lot of coaxing from an increasingly endeared Joe, wrestling an embarrassed Nicky onto his back. Joe’d kept his touches featherlight, amused with Nicky’s sudden shyness, stroked his fingers up and down over the tent in his underwear for long minutes, damp spot only getting bigger, Nicky’s arms crossed lazily over his head, thighs splayed wide, lazily rolling his hips up into the touches. Joe’d been rubbing their noses together but pulling back with a smirk each time Nicky tried to kiss him, whining and needy, biting his lips instead, and then rubbing his face into the pillow. He’d drawn it out for as long as it took for Nicky to get fed up enough with the not-quite-enough touches, got him to admit to his fantasy, and now here they are.

Joe’s mouth falls open in a little ‘o’ now, eyebrows raising helplessly, the praise pushing the flush of arousal to fog him over completely, feeling like he’s stuck on the edge.

Nicky picks up on it, of course, the way Joe’s gone stiff in his arms. Adjusts, just a tiny bit, so that he can get his lips close to Joe’s ear, and of course it makes the angle just a little bit better, makes Joe’s toes curl behind Nicky’s back.

“Uhhn,” Nicky pants in his ear, and Joe is convinced he’s coming, finally, just for half a second before the pleasure dips incrementally back down to unbearably good.

Nicky’s close too, he can tell from how he keeps sucking his lip into his mouth to hide that his breathing is so shaky.

And then Nicky opens his fucking mouth, and Joe trembles in his arms.

“You should see yourself like this, all hot and desperate for me, can’t do anything but take it,” he starts, nipping Joe’s ear too hard, knows he likes how it hurts. “Bet your cock is just _aching_ , fuck- isn’t it, baby? Wet, for me?”

And, he’s right, the bastard. Joe’s leaking steadily between them, making the way the head of his cock keeps rubbing over the firm, flexed muscles of Nicky’s abdomen _mouth-watering_ , that little bit of embarrassment at the fact that Joe can’t help but hump his hips forward more for the purpose of trying to get just a little more friction on it than to get Nicky deeper making everything that much hotter.

“Mmf, would love to be able to have you in my mouth and do this at the same time.”

Joe whines, nails digging into Nicky’s skin as his thrusts get quicker and shallower, pleasure licking through him like flames.

“Wish you could feel how it feels to be inside of you, _fuck,_ ” Nicky’s fingers curl tighter into the meat of his ass, and Joe lets out a helpless yelp that he would be embarrassed about if everything didn’t feel so _good,_ if Nicky didn’t make him feel so safe and wanted, if he couldn’t tell that each sound he makes goes directly to Nicky’s cock, makes him move faster.

Nicky moans shockingly low and raspy with his satisfaction, and Joe thinks he really might black out, teetering on the very edge, stars bursting behind his eyes.

Nicky growls, pleased with Joe’s fingers twisting into his hair again, and says, “want you like this forever, trapped up against the wall, out of it and on the edge, want to fuck you forever, just- keep you here, _oh-_ fuck, _ah_ -”

Joe accidentally tugs a fistful of Nicky’s hair hard enough that his head jerks back when he finally starts to come, orgasm fucked right out of him as Nicky’s hips stutter with the pleasure-pain, his cock pulsing wet between them, head hitting the wall with a thud as Nicky loses it and fucks into him rough and bruising, Joe’s favorite part, when he’s nothing but wild, chasing his own pleasure with abandon, flushed and wanting and desperate and _sexy_.

It envelops him so entirely that his mouth falls open, cock pulsing sluggishly, an obscenely loud moan pushed out against his will, hips rutting desperately forward, back arching as delicious pleasure seizes him from head to toe. His cock twitches through another wave of arousal when Nicky presses him just on the side of _too hard_ into the wall, hips driving forward with a final satisfied _‘unngh’_ as his cock is wrung out inside of Joe, and he writhes against him, hot and firm and _there_ , too good, panting into Joe’s neck as Joe cups a claiming hand over the back of his neck, hot and sweaty.

Only then, when they’re both panting and hazy, hips rolling lazily a final few times against each other, do Nicky’s legs tremble just a little bit.

Joe whines at the feeling of him slipping out, taking it upon himself to flop forward gracelessly into Nicky’s arms, giggling breathlessly against his neck as he’s all wrapped up, one big palm adjusting against his thigh and another stroking lovingly down his back, his own legs holding strong around Nicky’s waist as he’s spun around and hoisted down onto the bed with the momentum.

Nicky falls right down on top of him with a little _oof_ , chuckling too, warm and sweet, just as giddy.

Starts rubbing his nose against Joe’s immediately, grinning and going nearly cross-eyed, and Joe is helpless to do anything but lovingly stroke his hands up and down his flanks, laughing and throwing his head back against the bed.

Nicky kisses his jaw, then, instead. Snuggles close.

Joe shivers, admiring the shine of the sweat over his skin, muscles that must be achey, by now.

He says, “mm, we should take a bath.”

Nicky smiles, humming, tucking his face into Joe’s neck. Sighs happily when Joe’s hand comes up to stroke over his hair.

The moon is still high in the sky. After a bath, and then finally crawling back into bed, worn out from such an _exquisite_ fuck, the sleep is sure to be deep and divine. It’s also Sunday tomorrow, and Nicky never seems to have anything but time for Joe on Sundays, always stays and demands snuggles late into the morning, so.

“Good idea. Quick shower first, hm? Want me to start it?”

Joe kisses Nicky’s forehead, shifting his thighs a little and scrunching up his nose at the feeling of sticky fluid dripping and smearing between his thighs.

“Yes, please. Then when we’re in the bath I can take care of you, after all that hard work. Massage, maybe? If you’d like.”

Nicky hums, low and interested. He’s smiling giddy and satisfied, pleased with Joe being pleased with him.

“I _would_ like, Mr. Hero.”

He clings for another few minutes before he actually gets up, because, as Joe is learning, Nicky at his core is really just a big softie who loves to give (and receive) affection. His favorite way of doing so seems to be by rubbing his big goofy nose gently against various spots on Joe’s skin. Against his own nose, often. Sometimes under his chin, or against his shoulder, his neck, behind his ear. Against his chest and his belly, sometimes, while Joe plays with his hair.

And, he’s learning, maybe he’s not so different, himself.

He steals several more kisses, pleased warmth curling in his chest at Nicky’s sleepy smiles. Squeezes affectionately at Nicky’s waist innumerable times before he lets him get up to start the shower.

*

When Joe gets another unmarked letter, written in respectable black pen this time, he thinks it’s just a normal day.

He puts on his suit and his mask, grabs his sword, and heads to the specified address.

It’s on the very outskirts of the city, and by the time he gets there, the moon is high in the sky.

It’s another warehouse. There’s a buzzing sense of urgency in the air, though, numerous squad cars pulled up around, and a makeshift tent set up with a dozen or so people wrapped in shock blankets, or talking to police and reporters.

Joe is swept up in the proceedings, briefed on the situation.

He asks why he’s been called in, since he’s definitely not a hostage negotiator, and it’s a rare situation when Joe might actually not be the best man for the job. These things tend to involve guns, and as skilled as he is, there’s only so far Joe can get with a sword when he doesn’t have the element of surprise.

But, they tell him, he’s been brought in because he’s been requested specifically. By name.

By the gun-wielding maniac who’s taken the hostages.

Joe fights to keep his breathing even, tries to pay attention to the officer telling him that the maniac has a high-interest individual in there, and that it’s crucial Joe save them, no matter what it takes.

 _You take that maniac out dead or alive,_ they don’t say.

Joe just nods, thinking about Nicky. How he wished he’d told him he loved him that morning.

He’d thought it, at least a handful of times. While making coffee in his lovely new coffee maker, and eating leftover pierogis for breakfast.

It was a rare morning that Nicky was at his own place, something that Joe knew because he’d finally gotten his fucking phone number.

And he hadn’t texted Nicky those three words because he felt a little insecure, a little stupid, because he’d only just gotten Nicky’s number. Didn’t want to come off as needy, or what the fuck ever.

When he walks out of this, he tells himself- _when, not if_ -Nicky’s going to get a long, shameless spam of _I love yous._

Somebody gets a signal from inside the warehouse, and Joe is being sent in with a pat on the back.

Time to go be the hero.

He creeps slowly through the door, hands up, managing to keep his breathing under control for the most part. The warehouse is big and spooky and dim inside.

And then he sees just who the maniac is, and his stomach, his heart, anything good he’s ever felt plummets out of his body. The rug is being pulled from beneath his feet, and suddenly Joe knows heartbreak, and he knows it intimately. Knows that he isn’t walking out of this warehouse the same, not intact, not whole, no matter what goes down.

“It’s not what it looks like, Joe.”

It’s _Nicky._

The maniac is Nicky, and he has a fucking glock pointed at some guy’s head, just the two of them, standing in the middle of the warehouse.

_(“I have a past, Joe. The sniper is part of that past . . . I haven’t touched it in years . . . that’s not me . . . I am not a murderer.”)_

He doesn’t even have the decency to lower the gun when he sees the expression on Joe’s face, must be able to see that he’s breaking him, then and there.

“You _swore_ ,” Joe spits at him, raw, “heists only. You fucking _swore_ to me, Nicky.”

Nicky sucks in a breath, his eyes shining with regret or remorse or what the fuck ever under the plastic, stale warehouse lights, Joe doesn’t care. All he can think about, all he can feel is betrayal and _fury_ \- hurt, deeply, as Nicky keeps the gun trained on the man.

_(Bloody knuckles, stitching needles, and Nicky’s smiles in bed, how soft he gets, sleepy and pliant, and how he tries to feed Joe after he has panic attacks. The coffee maker, and masks under moonlight, and clashing swords - and gunshots that make his ears ring, and a room full of people bleeding out on the floor, Joe hiding under a counter, fresh out of law school, all of his hopeful and romanticized notions about making a difference within the system flying out the fucking window slow and torturous after that day, after the trial, so long later. After the shooter got off scot free, after other wealthy assholes vouched that he was a good man, really, just having a bit of trouble, even though it had been a cold, calculated, hateful crime.)_

He has to physically shake his head to push it all away, try to keep himself centred in the present.

His hands are trembling, just like they were for fucking _hours, fucking days, months, years_ after he crawled out from under that counter.

Nicky knows exactly what’s going on. He looks fucking _sorry,_ the bastard, and Joe _hates_ him.

Because Nicky has held Joe’s beating heart in his palm for longer than Joe can admit to himself. And maybe this is the part where he discovers that his intention has not been to merely steal it, but to squeeze the life from it.

Nicky pulls him back to the present. Does it by saying, too soft, “I know, Joe. You don’t understand. Please breathe.”

Joe feels blind fucking rage, and considers charging at Nicky then and there. How fucking _dare_ he tell Joe to breathe? Right now? Like this?

“Don’t understand what? That you’re a fucking liar?”

Nicky doesn’t flinch, even though Joe can see how the words cut him.

Him and his sniper’s fucking steadiness.

The man Nicky’s pointing the gun at asks, “why are you two talking like you know each other?”

Joe rips his sword out of its sheath, adrenaline making him feel tightly coiled all over, like a spring about to snap.

He advances, slowly, and Nicky adjusts his stance.

“You’re fucking scum. You’re _insane._ I should have left you in that fucking alley to rot.”

_(I cared about you. I loved you. I told you things I haven’t told anyone, and why is it that all I want right now is to be back in bed so you can fucking hold me and touch me and tell me you love me? Kiss me until I can’t breathe, can’t think about anything but how much I love you in my arms? Pretend like none of this is happening? Like we’re normal people who just get to be in love without worrying about the other coming home bloodied and broken? Or fucking leaving other people bloodied and broken? I trusted you, more than anyone, even when I knew I shouldn’t. How could you, Nicky? How could you do this to me? To us?)_

Nicky’s jaw clenches, but he says nothing, eyes shining with unshed tears.

Joe barks at him, “put the fucking gun down!”

Nicky licks his lips, and says, “no, Joe. Look at him.”

Joe’s fingers curl tighter around the hilt of his sword.

“And take my eyes off the lunatic with the gun in his hand? Right.”

Nicky sniffs, feet shuffling once more.

“And where the fuck do you think I got the gun from, huh? Could it be from this asshole right here in front of me?”

Joe blinks, only ten or so feet away, now.

The man starts to speak, but Nicky cuts him off, voice a whisper from breaking.

“Look at _him_ , Joe.”

Joe looks.

And he doesn’t recognize him, not at first. Raises his sword, now six feet away. Keeps flicking his eyes between Nicky and the man, and then it all clicks into place.

He’s looking at the CEO of the news corporation, the one whose smiling fucking face is stamped onto every paper and every logo of the broadcast network that first ran the nemesis story about him and Nicky.

“I received an unmarked letter this morning,” Nicky starts, eyes widening in relief when he sees understanding dawn in Joe’s, “which said that I had 12 hours to get my last heist haul liquidated and to bring it here in small bills.”

He jerks his chin towards a briefcase resting on a solitary table in the far corner of the warehouse.

“In exchange,” he continues, turning his gaze back on the man, “the letter promised they would release one Joe Al-Kaysani from where he was being held hostage. Imagine my surprise when I got here and all I found was a police team who took my fucking sword, shoved a gun in my hands and then left little old me all alone with this fuck-wit, running his mouth about how ecstatic you were going to be when you got here and found out you got to take out the freak from the papers who’s obsessed with you. To save the CEO of the network who keeps you in such good standing with the public.”

A single tear rolls down Nicky’s cheek.

He continues, “fuck-wit explained to me, so kindly, that if I put this gun down, the sniper aiming at my head is going to fire.”

Joe stops advancing, directly between Nicky and the man, cold terror dripping down his spine. Just in time for the latter to start running his mouth again.

“That’s a lie, Mr. Al-Kaysani. This _insane_ man took myself and my news team hostage, and insisted we bring you here because he’s obsessed with you, clearly. If you would be so kind as to take care of him.”

Nicky catches his eye, now, a private look.

The same one he’d given him in bed the night before. And, honestly, the way Nicky likes to finger Joe open, slow and wet and messy, a real proponent of the journey, not the destination (at least when it involves making Joe cry with overstimulation and pleasure, so out of it when he’s finally allowed to get off that Nicky has an excuse to pet him and whisper gentle things to him and take care of him afterwards)- that _could_ be described as obsessive (if Joe didn’t love it so much.)

Joe’s fingers flex on his sword hilt. Ratings must have been down, or some fucking bullshit, and the police and the news corporation orchestrated this entire situation- they hired a bunch of people to play hostages, they tricked Nicky into coming here, and they sent Joe in to complete the fucking story. To take out his nemesis, and rescue the CEO, and keep the ad revenue coming in for the corporation and for the police, keep the people who love to read about the drama of it all, who love to buy into the image of a hero, keep them dolling out their hard earned money for the shitty fucking paper.

But they didn’t bank on Nicky and Joe having met. They didn’t bank on the fucking alley, or stitching each other’s wounds, or stolen coffee makers, or hot chocolate and pierogis, or falling so deeply in love with each other that they can communicate with facial expressions alone.

A faint twitch of Nicky’s eyebrows.

Joe is behind the CEO with an arm across his chest and his sword poised in front of his neck before anyone can blink.

Nicky smiles, barely.

And Joe can see it now, the faint red dot trained in the centre of his forehead.

The CEO is cursing and yelling, and Joe feels _fury._

He says, calm as the eye of a storm, “tell me the call off code.”

Sputtering, the CEO chokes out, “but- you’re insane! _Both_ of you are insane, _holy fucking_ -”

“Maybe we are,” Nicky cuts him off, tear dripping off of his chin, “but there’s no way out of this for you unless you give up the code. You let them shoot me, and my Joe will saw your fucking head off. That won’t look too good on television, will it, my love?”

The CEO’s throat bobs as Joe pulls his sword tighter against it.

“You know, baby, I don’t think it will. Isn’t that right, sir?”

The CEO fucking _whimpers,_ and forces out, “I thought you were a good guy?”

Joe almost laughs, remembering the time Nicky- just the thief, then -said that exact phrase to him.

Nicky, who put himself in so much fucking danger here tonight. Who was prepared to sacrifice everything because he thought that somebody had Joe.

Nicky- _insane_ fucking Nicky, the love of Joe’s insane life.

He presses his blade hard enough into the man’s neck that a little bit of blood comes to the surface, escaping out of the paper thin cut in beads, and says, “there are no good guys, man. No bad ones, either. There’s just people who think they’re doing the right thing, for one reason or another.”

Nicky sniffs, smile growing, and Joe winks at him.

A pause, and then, loud and clear, the CEO calls out, “code blue.”

The dot skitters away from Nicky’s head.

Joe nods at him, and Nicky tosses the gun over his shoulder with a clatter.

(He never took the safety off).

He groans, then, theatrically, still every bit the mischievous thief Joe knows and loves, stretching his arms way up over his head so that his back cracks. Laughs, thready and high like an insane person, and wags his finger at the CEO while running his tongue over his teeth, making the poor man jerk in Joe’s arms when it looks like Nicky might take a step closer.

Joe rolls his eyes, his heartbeat coming down as he takes a step back, nothing more than a nick on the fuck-wit’s neck, and watches him collapse on his knees, sobbing.

“Well, now,” Nicky says, strolling past him and directly into Joe’s arms, sword now back in its sheathe, “that just seems dramatic.”

Joe laughs, disbelieving, still high on adrenaline, burying his nose in the juncture of Nicky’s shoulder and neck as they embrace.

Nicky smells like salty sweat, and faintly like the garlicky bread he likes from the pizza place beside the corner store.

Joe inhales, deep as he can.

“You’d know, wouldn’t you?”

Nicky snorts out a laugh, sniffling and bringing his hands up to cup Joe’s cheeks. He pushes their foreheads together, working on his breathing and clutching Joe like an anchor, tight and reassuring the way he knows Joe needs.

(Joe loves him.)

“I’m sorry,” Joe starts, squeezing him tight, “they told me there was a psycho in here taking hostages, and I come in here and I saw you with a gun- I shouldn’t have assumed-”

“No, no, babe, you have nothing to apologize for. They set us up. We figured it out. We’re good.”

Nicky is holding his eye so earnestly as he speaks, it’s too much for this moment, with the CEO still sobbing on the floor, and the mess of police and reporters outside that they’re going to have to deal with.

So Joe kisses him instead of trying to give him the verbal assurances back right this second, quick and dirty, a promise and a declaration for later.

Nicky _hmph_ s, on the same page as always, fingers gripping at Joe’s waist as the kisses grow hungrier.

Joe whispers, right in his ear, “you’re sexy when you play hero.”

Nicky nips his chin, hands going to Joe’s ass.

“Hm, and you should see yourself, saving my sorry ass again. Maybe we should fuck right here.”

Joe gives Nicky a playful look like he’s considering it, feeling mixed emotions at the knowledge that Nicky absolutely would, if Joe agreed.

Oh, the love Joe has for his insane thief.

But then the CEO cries out again, overcome with despair, or whatever.

Joe doesn’t really care.

He just takes Nicky’s hand, and he asks, “what’s the escape plan, baby?”

*

They don’t actually fuck that night.

As soon as the adrenaline wears off, after they high tail it out of the back of the warehouse and take a winding rout back to Joe’s place, when the gravity of what’s taken place hits them, there are more important things.

Joe’s thinking, somewhere in the back of his head, that he might call his therapist and set up weekly appointments again. He’s walling everything off in a box deep down in his brain currently, that image of Nicky with the mark on his forehead, but he knows that he’s going to need help with it, long term. With all the emotions he felt, seeing Nicky with the gun in his hand. With all of _this,_ all of _them_ , all of this insane life.

He’s coping, though. For the minute. Resolves to make the call first thing in the morning.

And, right now, Nicky.

He’s crying, currently, clutching Joe close to his chest and trembling like a leaf. Had been laughing a little hysterically most of the journey home, before breaking down barely two steps inside Joe’s apartment.

Joe’s seen him cry exactly twice in all the time they’ve known each other. Both today.

And he didn’t know he was a sympathy crier, but he’s learning a lot of things about himself, with Nicky.

“I have you, baby. You’re okay. I’m okay. We’re home. We’re safe.”

Nicky inhales deep and uneven, almost a gasp, shoulders shaking.

“I know, sorry. Fuck.”

Joe tuts, rubbing his fist over his own face to brush some of the wetness away before cupping Nicky’s cheek, stroking a thumb over his ear and knocking their foreheads together. Nicky’s fingers curl against his shoulders.

“Don’t apologize. You’re allowed to _feel,_ Nicky. Same as me. I’m right here with you, baby, to listen, or just to be here. Whatever you need.”

Nicky sucks in a breath, and tries to blow it out evenly. Presses into Joe’s hand on his cheek.

“I thought they were going to fucking kill you, and then I thought they were going to kill _me_. That’s- I’ve never- been in a situation like that. And I know, factually, that we’re fine now. But I can’t seem to stop fucking crying, and I’m not fucking sorry about it. Better?”

Joe laughs, wet and weak, presses a kiss to Nicky’s forehead while he snuffles and tries to smile in return.

“Much.”

Joe holds him for long, long moments, breathing him in and accommodating Nicky’s searching hands, moving over him again and again just to make sure he’s still there, still safe. Watches as he almost manages to stop crying, a few times, but then ends up sobbing again, frustrated.

It aches, Joe thinks, that in the long run, Nicky will probably need some help processing this, too. Might benefit from Joe passing on some contacts, some supports.

For tonight, though, he has an idea.

“Can I show you a trick, babe?”

Nicky scrubs a hand over his eyes, hot and red and still pouring down with tears, nodding. He lets Joe lead him into the bathroom. Watches him start up the shower.

“That’s cold water, Joe.”

Even as he’s frowning, Nicky lifts his arms, lets Joe pull his stupid spandex shirt off. It’s soaked through with sweat and tears.

“Yeah, I know. Just for a few minutes, and then we’ll warm it up.”

Nicky’s trembling fingers reach out to take Joe’s sword holster off. Sets it down beside his own, leaned up against the wall.

When they get under the cold spray, Nicky curses and squawks. There’s snot all over his face, and his eyes are red from crying, skin gone pale.

He’s the most beautiful person Joe’s ever seen.

And, he knows he must not look much better himself, but Nicky is looking at him like he’s thinking the same about him. Shivering, sneakily maneuvering them around so that the chilly water is pouring down Joe’s back instead of his own, burrowing into his chest.

Joe just stands there and holds him until his own teeth start chattering, and by then Nicky’s just sniffling, a little.

“Ready?”

Nicky nods into his shoulder, already looking more sleepy and annoyed at the cold than upset, and so Joe twists his arm around and flips the knob to moderately hot.

The warmth feels like pure relief, sweet and embracing. Joe feels Nicky relax in his arms, all the fight swirling down the drain, the hot water bringing with it all the lovely sleepiness, the muscle aches and the tiredness that’s been locked up underneath the shocked hurt.

They’ll be able to sleep, after this.

“Mm. That’s a neat trick.”

Nicky smiles as he says it, just a little, ducking around Joe to rinse the mess from his face. Leans back into Joe’s chest, his arms around his waist at the same time. He’s looking better already, some of his color coming back, pink heat under his skin.

Joe kisses his shoulder, and whispers, “yeah, I know. I love you.”

(Joe tells him ten more times before they finally fall asleep, wrapped around each other in bed. Nicky says it back each time, and Joe doesn’t hear it, but he also gets ahead by a few repetitions after Joe falls asleep, curled around his back.)

*

Joe’s eyes fly open, and his mouth is gaping, but he doesn’t know if he’s screaming out loud or not.

He scrambles in the sheets, dizzy, trying to get the room to stop spinning and his heart to stop thumping long enough to gauge what’s real. The sheets feel rough and abrasive against his overheated skin, even though they’re soft and clean and lovely.

His eyes land on Nicky, snoring away on the other side of the bed, and that’s enough. Almost. The moonlight washed over his pale skin, smooth and warm and familiar. A few bruises on his forearm, but otherwise he’s okay. Conked out cute and deep, because he had a heist the night before that kept him out late. Needs the rest.

Joe reaches out and pulls the blanket off of him before he thinks about it, just to make sure.

Nicky curls tighter in on himself with a _humph_ , displeased with the cold air, but snores on.

And Joe has his reassurance, can see that there isn’t a gaping bullet wound in his lover’s abdomen.

Reaches out to touch, to confirm that there isn’t the hot, slick pulse of blood pouring out, but then he pulls his hand back, presses it against his mouth instead to temper the shuddering breath that comes out.

He climbs out of their bed, swiping Nicky’s lighter and half-smoked cigarette on the way out to the living room.

Angrily brushes the stray tears away from his cheeks, shoves the cigarette between his lips and leans against the window. Searches out the crescent moon with tired eyes.

It’s pretty.

He presses his forehead against the cool glass while he stares at it and sighs, frustration gradually melting away, reminding himself that it was only a dream. Then he sucks in a lungful of smoke, holds it for a few extra moments before he lets it stream out of his nostrils like an ashen river.

He has the tears under control by the time Nicky waddles out to find him, duvet curled cosy around his bare shoulders, tripping him up.

Joe lifts an arm for him before Nicky can even ask.

Nicky nestles under his arm, nosing into his cheek.

He’s still half-asleep, Joe thinks. Cute.

“You’re stupid,” Nicky tells him, soft and sweet.

Joe chuckles, raising an eyebrow and pulling his head back so he can look into Nicky’s sleepy eyes, brushes their noses together.

It makes Nicky smile, docile and cuddly, so. Joe has to smile too, helpless.

“Why am I stupid?”

Nicky hums into his neck where he’s turned to press kisses, chilly fingers brushing over Joe’s belly.

“Left me all alone. Fucking stupid.”

Joe’s shoulders shake, just a little, with his laughter. His eyes crinkle up when he takes the last drag, finishing off the cigarette. Nicky leans in close to inhale the smoke he lets out, pressing his body closer, blanket slipping down to the floor.

Joe flicks the filter down into the ashtray on the windowsill. Turns back and pulls Nicky into a warm kiss, breathing him in. When he’s sleepy like this, it’s no exaggeration that he’ll let Joe do whatever to him, literally push him this way and that. Whines softly, now, fingers clinging as Joe licks teasingly at the seam of his lips, before sliding a hand down to the small of his waist, shifting them so their chests and bellies are pressed together, Nicky’s arms wrapping heavy around his neck, fingers sliding into his curls as they kiss languid and wet. Soft gasps, and a rumbling moan low in Joe’s chest before they pull away to breathe, rubbing slow and lazy against each other, no urgency at all.

Nicky wiggles his hips, just to emphasize that they’re both _interested_ before he whispers, “was gonna ask if you wanted me to leave you alone for a bit. If the dream was bad. _Hm_ , oh.“

He trails off, swaying into Joe like maybe his knees are weak, as Joe nibbles at the spot he likes below his ear. He’s noticed the past few weeks, growing his beard out again, that Nicky _loves_ the scratch of it against spots that he’s sensitive. As in, can get off so fast he gets embarrassed after if Joe fingers him while kissing all over the soft insides of his thighs, purposefully rubbing his face all over until the pale skin is red and irritated. Might be the novelty, or maybe it’s just one of those things for him.

Joe doesn’t really care. Because it’s effective, and it’s hot.

“I don’t want that, no.”

They make it to the couch, dragging the blanket from the floor over with them. Joe dips Nicky down like they’re waltzing, smiling against his neck as Nicky kicks at his legs to make him fall down against him.

Nicky cups his cheeks, then, eyes gone serious.

“Hey.”

Joe bonks their foreheads together, lightly, because Nicky can’t not smile whenever he does, for whatever reason.

“Hey.”

Nicky cracks that smile, lips twitching with all the effort to hold it back.

God, how Joe loves him.

Nicky strokes his thumb over Joe’s cheekbone, earnest and open.

“You sure you’re okay, Mr. Hero?”

Joe softens, turning his head to press a kiss to Nicky’s palm.

“I’m sure, babe. Just needed a minute.”

Nicky yawns, stroking his foot over Joe’s calf as Joe keeps kissing his wrist.

Joe gives it another three minutes before he falls back to sleep.

Nicky whispers, “‘kay. Love you.”

Joe smiles against his skin.

“I love you too.”

(Nicky’s asleep in two minutes, nodding off exactly thirty seconds after insisting that he’s awake enough to suck Joe off, and twenty-five after Joe starts kissing his collarbones.)

(Joe isn’t far behind, snuggled up and safe in the arms of his thief.)


	4. epilogue

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> bonus snippet from nicky’s perspective, let’s say six months or so after the warehouse. enjoy

Nicky sniffs, squinting up at the menu above the counter in some run down but well-loved little food joint. Glances down at the glass case with ready-made selections, head swimming, stomach growling insistently.

He points to a couple of sandwiches.

“Is there pork in those?”

The woman behind the counter makes a strange face at him, looking exhausted. She points slowly at the ‘halal’ sign front and centre on the case, smile hesitant, but warm.

Nicky blinks at it, mildly embarrassed. Tries to count backwards in his head and work out how long it’s been since he last slept.

Well. Maybe he hasn’t _slept_ recently, but he definitely _ate_ something that morning, maybe. Hopefully.

(The way his stomach is rumbling suggests otherwise.)

It’s nearing 2a.m., and he knows what it’s like to be on the other side of the counter when customers are being particularly dense, so. He makes a point to shove a couple of bills in the tip jar after she hands over the sandwiches, and thanks her twice before he takes off with the food.

He fumbles to get a cigarette between his lips and lit immediately, shivering against the cool night air. Trying to fucking smoke himself warm from the inside out, holding the smoke in his lungs a touch too long before he exhales, searing and scratchy, wishing he’d thought to put on a coat.

He’d prefer to cook, really, rather than show up with store bought sandwiches. But it’s been too long since he’s seen Joe at all, let alone offered him any treats, spoiled him how he deserves. Or, three days feels too long, now. For them, it’s definitely too long. And he knows from experience that bad things happen when he tries to use a stove while he’s this tired, so takeout will just have to do.

It makes him feel bad. Showing up at Joe’s place all the time and eating his food. Using his medical supplies. But he can’t exactly invite him to his own place, since he shares it with Booker, who is adamant that giving up the location of their home and criminal base to the city’s favorite hero is a bad move, no matter the fucking pink hearts and butterflies said hero puts in Nicky’s stomach, or what the fuck ever.

It’s fine. Joe insists that he doesn’t care, so long as Nicky’s safe and has what he needs.

Joe’s kind like that. Generous. Good to Nicky, good to _everyone_ he interacts with, in any and all ways that he can be. Selfless.

And, he’ll swear up and down that he’s no hero, just plays one sometimes, just does what he can. But Nicky knows that Joe is _good_ down to the bone, at the core of who he is. Good in all the ways that matter, all the ways that anyone can be. Knows it the same way he knows that the sun will rise and set each day.

There’s a very specific kind of ache that fills Nicky’s chest when he can tell Joe doesn’t believe that of himself. When he’s filled with anger secondary to a paralyzing fear at a world that feels hopeless, when he’s not up to getting out of bed, when he has panic attacks, when he gets frustrated with himself, doesn't feel like he does enough, doesn't feel like he _is_ enough.

Nicky does what he can to help him _see_ , because he deserves to know that even though the world can be vile and terrible and scary, it can be good, too, and Joe is one of the reasons that it can. His goodness. And he deserves to turn that light and love and kindness on himself, every once in awhile.

And, Nicky basks in his light like a moth to a flame, because of course he fucking does. To have somebody so lovely want him- _love_ him, by some fucking miracle. To be allowed to love him back, it’s a gift he cherishes everyday.

Nicky’s made a lot of bad choices in his life, but Joe shines like the fucking sun, and his light illuminates the good parts of Nicky, too.

Made him want to fucking cry, when he asked what that little phrase Joe calls him means, the one that correlates to his sweet, emotive eyes going soft and affectionate such that it makes Nicky want to blush, even still, always surprised to be pinned down under so much reverence.

_“Oh, ya amar? It’s- like the moon, or I’m saying that you’re my moon. Lighting the way in the dark. True and constant and beautiful, that kind of thing. Fuck, is that too sappy? We can pretend it means dirty, thieving motherfucker, if you like.”_

(What more could you possibly ask for from a lover?)

So. Nicky and the sandwiches, climbing the stairs in Joe’s building, fumbling in his pocket for his brand new copy of Joe’s apartment keys. Smiles to himself, thinking back on all the times he kicked it in, before. All the times he climbed in through the window, until Joe finally gave him a copy of the key. Told him he’d be getting fucking spanked if he broke in again.

(After which, the very next time he came over, Nicky made a point of noisily jimmying the window open, knowing Joe was home and could have opened the door for him. And then. Well.)

(Nicky got spanked. And then fucked within an inch of his life. To _very_ mutual satisfaction. So.)

It’s dark and quiet, now, as he lets himself in. Joe’s shoes are there, kicked off and left upside down in the corner by the door in the way that makes Nicky smile to see. He's definitely home. Asleep.

Nicky has mixed emotions. On one hand, Joe is a dumbass who runs himself ragged day and night. He needs the rest and Nicky is glad that he’s getting it.

On the other hand.

Nicky misses him, is all. Was perhaps looking forward to a nice ‘ _I missed you’_ kiss, and to playfully scrunching his fingers against Joe’s belly to make him smile.

But, getting to snuggle up to Joe in bed and then give him lots of warm, sleepy kisses in the morning will be just as nice.

He detours to the kitchen, quiet as he can so he doesn’t wake Joe up, revising his plan. Doesn’t bother to turn the lights on. Sticks one of the sandwiches into the refrigerator, and hurriedly chomps his way through the other one, leaning against the counter.

It’s fucking good. Involves a dense, moist bread, peppers, crunchy greens, falafel, and a sweet, spicy sauce. Joe’s gonna love his, even if it’s a little soggy from sitting in the fridge over night. Nicky can’t wait, rolling around the idea of trying to wake up first and bring Joe a little tray with coffee, his sandwich, maybe duck out and see if he can get his sticky little hands on a copy of the paper for them to make fun of.

He wolfs his own sandwich down in the meantime, and then turns on the tap while licking a bit of the sauce off of his thumb. Ducks down to get his mouth under it, sucking down cool pulls of water.

The comforting familiarity of being in Joe’s apartment has started to lull him by the time he makes his way down the hall, and he’s thinking that he’ll probably pass out blissfully quick, once he’s tucked himself into Joe’s arms.

But then he hesitates, halfway down the hall. Thinks he hears a sound.

He cocks his head, heart pounding with fear and adrenaline. Could it be a petty burglary? Somebody who’s figured out Joe’s identity and wants revenge? Did Joe actually go back and take home that mangy little stray cat he’s been bringing food to and cooing over in their alley?

But then he blushes, sudden and ridiculous, when his brain makes sense of what exactly it is he’s hearing.

“ _Uuh, fuck,”_ low and needy. Rustling sheets.

The thought that there could be somebody else in there with Joe comes and goes in half a second, because Nicky knows Joe. He wouldn’t.

Which leaves the other very enticing possibility that Joe is in there touching himself. Which.

Nicky keeps walking, able to see right into the bedroom because Joe sleeps with the door open like the fearless weirdo he is, and sure enough.

There’s Joe, face pressed into his pillow, muscled arms curls around it. Purposefully grinding his hips down against the mattress, deep, needy thrusts that make his ass and thighs look like a fucking _feast._

Nicky swallows, feeling hot under the collar.

Maybe Joe’s had a nice dream.

“So you _do_ get up to things you don’t want me to overhear at night.”

Joe shrieks, flipping onto his back so fast he almost bounces off of the bed.

“What the fuck, Nicky?”

His voice is still deep and gravelly with sleep, biting and rough with how he’s been startled.

Mm. Definitely a nice dream, then.

Nicky leans against the doorframe, smiling. Takes in the view.

“Missed you too, sweetheart.”

Joe’s curls are growing out long and thick (Nicky _adores_ them). The thin t-shirt covering his chest is one Nicky recognizes as his own, or as one that used to belong to him, once upon a time, before he left it behind while staying over and then Joe gave him those wide puppy eyes when he tried to take it back.

They stare at each other for long moments, and even through the dark, Nicky is soft as always for those _damn_ eyes.

Joe’s still hard. As in, hard as a rock, little damp patch faintly visible through light grey material, prominent in his underwear such that Nicky wonders if the spike of adrenaline from being walked in on hadn't done it for him, a little. The blankets are all kicked to the end of the bed, and the moonlight highlights him beautifully from head to toe, dustings of dark hair over soft skin that Nicky wants to run his tongue all over.

He makes a point to rake his eyes all over Joe, makes him shiver like it’s a physical touch.

Watches him slide his hand down then, trailing slow and intentional down his chest, his belly, splaying his thighs wide so that the material of his briefs pulls tight across his hard cock, makes his hips twitch up a little, everything on perfect display.

“Well,” Joe asks, breathless as he squeezes himself, “are you going to join me?”

Nicky slinks foreword, managing to get his shirt off before he crawls onto the bed, right over Joe, one hand on either side of his shoulders.

Leans down for a kiss, before anything else.

Joe opens up for him beautifully, deliciously sleep warm and snuggly.

He’s breathless already, licking at the seam of Nicky’s lips and moaning low and sudden when Nicky gives him what he wants right away, kisses him hard and insistent, nose pressing into his cheek, tongue purposeful. Gets his hands all tangled in Nicky’s hair, needy, before he suddenly tugs him back a little bit, by his hair.

Nicky whimpers, pleased. His eyes open, and Joe is staring at him with wide eyes, striking and serious. Lips parted just barely, eyebrows slanted up.

He’s everything.

He runs a hand down the back of Nicky’s neck and whispers, searching Nicky’s eyes, “I missed you. I love you.”

He says it so very earnestly, moonlight making his eyes glimmer like dark stones, wide and steady. Lets it hang in the air for a minute, with their harsh breaths.

Nicky exhales in a rush, brushes their noses together. Can’t help but smile.

(It’s been a habit of Joe’s since the warehouse, vetted by his therapist. Being clear and open about speaking his feelings when he feels them, no matter what. It’s _terribly_ cute, Nicky thinks, with Joe’s already rapt and attentive way of speaking and being, now that he consciously tries to concentrate it, randomly will sit up straighter and blink his big, beautiful, solemn eyes at Nicky before saying some fucking romantic shit that always catches him off guard. Also, terrible in general, now that Joe knows how much Nicky blushes when Joe verbalizes his admiration for him while they are already doing _intimate_ things).

“I love you too, baby. So much.”

Joe relaxes, all at once. His eyes flutter shut, and he pulls Nicky down so that their foreheads knock together, gentle.

Nicky just enjoys the closeness a moment, the same way Joe is. And then he starts kissing him again, slow and molten, teases of their lips together light and ticklish before he mimics the contact with his tongue, gets Joe all huffy and whining before he finally kisses him properly, makes his back arch so that his belly presses up against Nicky’s, overwhelmed with the pleasure of their tongues curling together.

( _This_ is exactly the kind of ‘ _I missed you’_ kiss Nicky had been wanting.)

Joe hooks a leg around his waist, then, shuddering all over as he rocks his erection up into the rough material of Nicky’s jeans, writhing, mouth going lax with his moans, picking right up where he left off when Nicky interrupted him.

It’s incredibly hot, this. Joe just getting himself off against him, and Nicky shivers just at the thought of Joe in here, waking up horny and rocking his hips against the bed for however long, either too lazy to get a hand around himself or just enjoying drawing it out. Wants to ask if he was thinking of him, but also feels a little shy, brain too fuzzy with the excitement of this, the never ending thrill of _Joe_ to hold onto coherency long enough to pursue that line of inquiry.

The way his movements don’t slow at all, fingers digging into Nicky’s muscles, hips working feverishly, eyes screwed shut, Nicky can tell that Joe is very, _very_ close.

So he pulls away, leans up and off of him, withdrawing all his touches at once, leaves him thrusting up into empty air twice before he realizes it’s futile.

Joe whines, watches Nicky smirk and pull at his belt buckle.

“Just a minute, babe.”

Nicky gets his belt off, and then shoves his underwear and jeans down in one go, turned and sitting with his legs hanging off the edge of the bed.

Joe is cozying up behind him before they even hit the floor, firm chest pressed all against Nicky’s back, strong arms coming around his shoulders, beginning to press wet, nipping kisses all over the side of his neck.

Fuck, he smells good. Clean and spicy like his soap. Probably had a shower before bed, but he’s also warm underneath with the prickling of fresh sweat and heady arousal. Incredibly warm, and Nicky is shivering in his arms.

Joe slides a hand slow and intentional up Nicky’s neck, before he gets his jaw cradled in his heel of his hand and pulls his face to the side so he can steal more kisses, hot and wanting, all tongue. His face is already starting to feel the burn from Joe’s beard, but oh well. Nicky doesn’t mind. (Likes it).

“A minute is too long.”

Nicky smiles into the kiss, hands going to Joe’s waist.

“Is not. Want you naked too, please.”

Joe tilts his head to the side, expression going faux-shy and pouty. His eyelashes flutter, and he’s raising his arms, lets Nicky strip his (Nicky’s) shirt off and then push him down onto his back.

Nicky straddles him, knees on either side of his hips. Guides Joe’s hands above his head, dipping down to bite at his earlobe, then the cord of his neck.

“Are you close, babe?”

Nicky whispers it against Joe’s neck, laving his tongue over warm skin as he slowly makes him way down, feels Joe squirm, thighs already tensing in anticipation.

“Yes, Nicky. Please.”

Nicky hums, noncommittal. Bites gently at the side of Joe’s neck, sucking and nipping until he’s sure there’ll be a nice mark.

“How about you tell me all about those dreams you were having that had you humping the bed so pretty, and I’ll take care of you. Sound good, baby?”

Joe’s biceps flex, breaths coming shaky. Nicky’s rubbing a gentle hand over his chest, just to feel his heartbeat. Can feel how _warm_ he is, how hot he gets for Nicky, how flustered.

“Mhm. Sounds good.”

Nicky trails his kisses down Joe’s chest, feels the way he sucks in a deep breath, before he starts to recount his dream. Feels his fingers twist into the back of his own hair, one hand petting anxiously, or with anticipation. Joe has a tendency to soothe with gentle, repetitive touches, absentminded. For his own benefit, or for Nicky's. Or for both.

“I think it’s because I was _thinking_ when I went to bed. I was exhausted, long day at work, having nightmares the night before, so. Fuck. Anyway, I was _thinking_ \- I miss my fucking boyfriend, and he’s not here, and I don’t know when he’s coming back, but I deserve a good fucking orgasm tonight. So I thought, maybe I’ll use a toy if he doesn’t show up, and I’ll just have to think about him while I- while I fuck myself, _fuck_ , Nicky- _oooh_. Mm.”

Nicky smirks, faintly, continuing to suck lightly at the wet head of Joe’s cock through his underwear. He’s shuddering, eyes closed, licking slowly over his lips, lazily rolling his hips up as Nicky mouths at him. Back arches up, pleased, when Nicky pinches his hip to remind him to keep talking.

“Mm, and- I was just so _tired,_ got out of the shower and didn’t even get my toy out, just- fell asleep thinking about how nice it would be if you showed up and fucked me to make up for being gone so long, nice and slow. Mmm- _ah_ , a-and, it was nothing crazy, just like this, kind of- warm, and slow, like I said. And then- uh- I dreamed about it, I think, and I woke up hard, but still sleepy, so. You know the rest, because you came in here and scared me half to fucking death, asshole.”

Nicky pulls back an inch or two so that Joe can enjoy the tease of his hot breath, and he whispers, “oh, I _scared_ you. That’s why you’re so hard for me now, right?”

Joe shivers, low whine spilling out as Nicky begins to tug his underwear off. Gets them down off his thighs, his calves, smiling at how his feet are arched with his toes tucked inward when he does away with them entirely.

Joe slurs out, “m’ hard because you’re teasing me. Not nice.”

Nicky finally gets situated back between Joe’s legs, gently rubs his palms over the firm muscles of his thighs, begins treating the head of Joe’s cock, glistening and needy, to little kitten licks that make his hips jerk up, legs opening wider.

“Mmff- _fffuck_ , Nicky.”

Nicky hums, tongue inching down before he detours to bite at the sensitive skin of Joe’s inner thigh, reaching out to grasp at the bottle of lube on the nightstand. Conveniently placed, likely by Joe before he fell asleep, didn’t even get the chance to use it.

“You know, babe, if you don’t think the teasing is nice all you have to do is ask me to stop.”

Joe sucks his lip into his mouth, blinking his pretty wide eyes all innocent and helpless down at Nicky.

Mhm. Right.

“And,” Nicky continues, “all you told me about the dream is that the sex was warm and slow. A good start, but I would like some more details.”

With that, he leans down to kiss all around Joe’s hole, popping the cap on the lube, squeezing at his thigh muscles as they tense and shift.

“I-‘m embarrassed.”

Nicky peers up at him, thumb rubbing slow circles over the sensitive area of skin between his hole and his balls.

He’s beautiful. All trembling breaths, hard nipples, sleepy eyes darkened with how aroused he is. Looks shy, now. Earnest as always, sweet as can be.

Nicky has proved correct in his estimation that Joe is the tamer of the two of them, much more inclined to be chaste. Becomes overwhelmed easier. Though he trusts, wholeheartedly, Nicky to be patient with him. Wants to be pushed, will use his word if ever it’s too much.

Nicky crumbles for him, like always.

“Alright, sweetheart. You don’t have to tell me. Bet it was nice, though. You’re so beautiful like this. All the time. Dream-me is a lucky guy.”

Joe gasps, head falling back against the pillows, mouth falling open when suddenly Nicky’s tongue is laving at his hole. A high, whimpered sound leaves his lips, fingers tugging lightly at Nicky’s hair.

“I- you- kept kissing me. We were fucking, but it was also- uh, fuck- _mm_ , _like that-_ you were kissing me everywhere.”

Nicky would like to reply, but he squeezes Joe’s thigh instead, continues slowly working his tongue inside.

Cute, the things Joe fantasizes about. Complete fucking romantic, Nicky’s guy. Wants at any given time simply to be kissed and held and loved, and to kiss and hold and love in return.

(Nicky is happy to oblige.)

Manages to get some of the lube warmed between his fingers, and then gently brushes them over Joe’s skin, still wet from his tongue.

 _“Oooh._ ”

Joe’s head tips back, tongue slowly peaking out to wet his lips, thighs tensing as Nicky’s fingers stroke gently inside of him, tentative and playful. Lazy, working up to a probing rhythm, teasing against his prostate like they have all the time in the world, and he wants Joe to be squirming and desperate for every single minute.

Nicky hadn’t needed to use quite so much lube, probably. Everything’s drenched, slick and hot and perfect, his fingers gliding almost too easily inside of Joe. Makes him have to press a little harder, a little more insistently to make sure his fingers keep hitting that spot without slipping off the mark, that it's not _too_ slick for the friction to hit right, the added pressure making Joe’s knees shake, splayed wide as they’ll go on either side of Nicky’s shoulders.

And Joe is entirely at his mercy, all unsteady breaths and trembling muscles, writhing underneath him.

His hips jump, every few seconds now, breathy little ‘ _uh_ ’s slipping out of his throat, fucking himself against Nicky’s fingers, hand leaving Nicky’s hair to twist into the pillow, the other resting against his belly, fingers twitching.

He whimpers when Nicky leans up to kiss his belly, fingers finding Nicky’s hair once again. They tug, when Nicky purposefully kisses all around his cock, lets Joe feel the tease of his hot breath there, make him shiver and his hips helplessly twitch up, almost shuddering, wanting firm friction but loving the teasing.

Nicky takes mercy pretty quickly. He’s missed Joe, after all.

Takes his cue in the form of a needy little whimper from Joe, high and quiet, like he hadn’t quite meant to let it slip out, cheek rubbing into the pillow.

Nicky’s lips part around the wet tip of his cock.

It doesn’t take much, after that.

A few more caresses inside, unrelenting rubbing against that spot, a few suckles of his lips around the head and barely there stroking over Joe’s length with the fingertips of his free hand and Joe is coming with a mewl, eyes shut, mouth open, spine arched beautifully, feet sliding against the sheets.

A few soft chants of Nicky’s name, then. As he makes sure to lick up the little bit that’s escaped his mouth off of Joe's skin, and then he’s being ushered up for kisses.

Kissing Joe is indescribable. Nicky is in love with Joe, yes. But he’s also in love with the _act_ of kissing him.

He’s so _responsive._ All pliant and warm and sweet after he comes, clingy and relaxed and _sososo_ happy to be kissed. Sighing and whining and moaning while Nicky kisses him stupid, renders himself stupid in the process.

Nicky almost forgets that the pull of heat in his belly, between his legs has the ability to _go somewhere_ too, but then Joe’s fingers curl around him and his brain short circuits and he forgets how to think, mouth going lax as Joe chuckles, starts kissing his neck, rolling them over so that Nicky is underneath. 

_“Fuck,_ Joe. _”_

He gasps, shivering, wondering when it is that Joe had the opportunity to slick his fingers up. Forgets how to think about that too, moaning when Joe starts stroking him in tight, short, quick jerks, thumb sliding over the head.

Comes just like that, orgasm building quick and easy, Joe’s teeth sunk into his skin, release spattered over Joe’s fist and his own belly.

Then, more kisses. Fishing for somebody’s shirt, gigging, tickling fingers briefly coming into play before Joe calls his word and snuggles himself into Nicky’s chest.

“Hey, babe?”

His voice is sweet, raspy and deep with satisfaction and exhaustion, half muffled because he’s comfy with his face all pressed into Nicky’s skin.

Nicky skims his knuckles down the knobs of his spine, and asks, “mhm?”

He leans up, sleepy eyes crinkling as he takes in Nicky’s smile, leaning in to kiss him short and sweet.

“‘M tired. And I bet if you reached over there with those nice long arms of yours you could reach my smokes.”

Nicky does an exaggerated eye roll for show, bops their noses together, and then he does as he’s been asked and fumbles for a smoke. Manages to procure one from the carton and grasp the lighter between his fingers without having to move away from Joe’s lovely warmth or knock anything over, which is a great success.

Joe’s gazing at him with those impossible eyes as he takes the first drag, wide and beautiful and earnest. Nicky could look into them forever, at the barely there little smirk as Joe's fingers delicately slip the cigarette between his own lips.

They trade back and forth, giving each other the short rundowns of their last couple days. Nicky admits that he’s started pressing his pillow against his radiator and pressing his back against the pillow when he sleeps alone because it feels more like sharing a bed with Joe. Joe goes all quiet and smiley, and Nicky tugs on his curls. Joe asks if Nicky saw the headline the day before, and then they’re both laughing, and eventually the butt of the smoke is stubbed out in the ashtray.

When they finally get settled down, he traces his pointer finger, featherlight, over the bridge of Joe’s nose, making constellations out of his freckles. Up between his eyebrows and over his forehead, skims gentle knuckles down his cheekbone, and then begins brushing his thumb over his pink lips. Leans forward to brush his nose against Joe’s, gently, just because he can. Just because it makes Joe smile. Makes him pout until Nicky kisses him for real.

Joe looks completely blissed out and peaceful, all the worry lines completely smoothed out. Comfortable as can be. Arms tucked behind his head, one leg thrown over Nicky’s, lips twitching up faintly. It amuses him, he’s said, how Nicky is so cuddly with him. Says he finds it cute. And, more and more, Joe is the one who initiates it, or whines for it, more like, these days. The closeness, the touches, the nose brushing.

Not that he was ever adverse to it. Just, he was certainly more reserved, at first. Didn’t seem to know what to do with the physical affection that comes to Nicky like a second language. He used to laugh and flush hot and wander away, fluttering hands and a quick beating heart, only to eventually make his way back to the arms Nicky keeps open for him. Or, sometimes he’d get overwhelmed. Prone to getting anxious about it. All the fears swelling up scary and sudden, scared, as he’d worked out with his therapist and then admitted to Nicky on a quiet night, that he was always scared he would leave.

Nicky has regrets about how things started. About how often he would disappear, at first, how often he would leave Joe hanging. Not that he needs to, really. They’ve talked about it. Things were complicated. On both of their ends. They figured it out.

Nicky has always been like that. Affectionate with the people he cares about, prone to erratic behaviour when he doesn’t know if it’s returned or not, if it’s accepted and wanted. And, boy, did his heart latch onto the masked hero quickly and completely.

Just because he put that energy with Joe into fighting and pushy flirting for the first while, it’s no less true that Nicky has _cared_ , cared so much, so deeply, that his whole heart and chest have been fluttery with it ever since that first night in their alley. Even for the weeks he'd disappear, and the times when they'd be snappy and end up fighting with each other. For Nicky, it’s always been about having Joe’s attention.

And, he can physically _see_ it, how Joe relaxes when they’re like this now. How he cares just as much, how he loves just as much, so. All is well.

It’s mesmerizing, how Joe gets. How he relaxes with Nicky, especially in bed like this. Little by little and then all at once, he’s putty in Nicky’s hands. Nuzzling under his chin, hiding his drooping eyelids, snuffing and stifling a yawn as he curls in. Nicky's hero.

Nicky doesn’t bother to stifle his answering yawn, wrapping his arms tight around Joe for a goodnight hug and kissing his head before he eases off, still snuggly and cosy, but relaxed and loose for sleep.

“I love you, baby." He speaks into Joe's curls, nosing into them in the exaggerated way that makes Joe giggle, says his breath feels funny. "‘Night.”

Joe pats his chest, gentle. His smiling lips brush featherlight over Nicky’s skin.

“Mm. Love you too.”

(As is Nicky's habit, when Joe inevitably falls asleep first, snoring very, very softly against his neck, he whispers another _I love you_ or two into the quiet of the night, the safety of the bedroom, of Joe's arms around him, and his around Joe. As the moon loves the sun.)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> today, i offer you some more in this beloved little universe of mine. tomorrow, who knows

**Author's Note:**

> thanks all for coming on this journey with me, it’s been a pleasure
> 
> shoutout to deadpool, to marwan as majid, and to luca as primo/diabolik for putting this idea into my head
> 
> yell at me via my ask on tumblr if u feel like it @ dearpatroclus


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